


The One We Need

by macadama



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: 9/11, Abduction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Company History, Discussion of Abortion, Florida, Grief/Mourning, Kirby Plaza, Mira Shenoy headcanon, Multi, Night Clubs, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Running Away, abilities, body control, consequences of TMI, shadow societies, supervision
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-24 00:02:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1584269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macadama/pseuds/macadama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of the explosion, where will Mohinder go with no place to call home and a child in his care? And what will happen when his past follows him to the United States? An AU set after Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Concrete Jungle

Molly insisted that they go to the hospital where the paramedics had taken Officer Parkman. Mohinder somehow stayed awake while watching the clock drag on into the morning hours. He turned his head and found Molly dozing on his shoulder. Brushing back wayward locks that covered her face, he sat there, pondering her surprisingly still frame and smooth face.

“Mister Suresh.”

Mohinder looked up and saw the attending doctor standing by their row of seats.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I was able to contact Mister Parkman’s wife. She said to remove him from life support.”

“Dammit!” Mohinder hissed.

Molly woke up at Mohinder’s flinch. “What is it, Doctor Suresh?”

The doctor cast a curious glance at Mohinder. “You’re a doctor?”

“A geneticist, actually,” he replied.

“Well, I thought I’d let you visit with him one last time.”

“One last time?” Molly asked. “Is Officer Parkman going to die?”

The doctor looked at Molly and nodded. “I’m sorry.”

Molly faced Mohinder, her lip quivering. She stared at him for a while before sliding out of the visitor chair where she had been perched. With that, Mohinder stood up and reached for her hand. Together, they followed the doctor to see Parkman.

They arrived at Parkman’s bed and found the former police officer chained to a ventilator. Wires snaked from monitors to various patches on his body making him almost impossible to see. Overhead fluorescent lights washed out his already pale face and limp hands. The beep of the heart monitor and huffs of the ventilator blended into the white noise of hospital activity.

“Molly,” Mohinder whispered to the scared child at his side.

“Take your time,” the doctor said.

Molly shot an indignant look at the doctor before dragging Mohinder closer to the bed. Only then could they see the lack of expression on Parkman’s face. Once close enough, Molly let go of Mohinder’s hand and crept to a spot near Parkman’s ear.

“Officer Parkman,” she squeaked, “you’ll always be my hero.”

She dug her skinny fingers into the bed sheet by Parkman’s head and began to cry. Mohinder knelt at her side, slipping an arm around her shoulders. He nodded to the doctor, who glanced at the nurse standing near the foot of the bed. The two disconnected the ventilator before stepping away. For a moment, the four of them kept watch on Parkman. Molly clung to Mohinder, who faced the bed. Mohinder had not been formally introduced to the policeman at any point, but he felt a sense of duty toward him. Hugging Molly, he leaned toward Parkman’s ear.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “I’ll keep her safe.”

With that, a high pitched whine cut through the air. Molly squeezed Mohinder’s shoulders, and he patted her back. He glanced up and saw the rows of flat lines on the heart monitor. To his right, he observed the doctor look at his watch. The doctor removed a pen from his pocket and scribbled something on the clipboards in his hand.

“What time is it?” Mohinder asked him.

“Five fifty-six,” the doctor replied. “I’ll leave you alone for a couple minutes.”

At that, the doctor waved the clipboard. Mohinder nodded.

“Of course,” he mumbled as the doctor and nurse left the bed.

After they left, Mohinder continued to hold a sobbing but somewhat still Molly. He stared at Parkman’s body on the bed, not yet prepared for movement to the morgue. His thoughts drifted to something Molly told him while they sat in the lobby. Idly, he wondered if Peter could read minds.

Too focused on the little girl's crying, he did not feel the tear racing down his cheek.

A half hour later, the two of them left the hospital with no idea where they were going. Streams of pink snaked between crevices of the urban jungle, muting the reds of traffic lights. Mohinder and Molly wove their way through the concrete maze with the only noise coming from the rumble of early morning traffic. Their silence was interrupted by a low gurgle.

“I’m hungry,” Molly mumbled.

Mohinder looked around at the semi-familiar street onto which they had wandered. He vaguely remembered driving down it what seemed like years ago but was, in fact, only six weeks in his past. He searched his brain, trying to remember what he had seen in his travels along the street. Then it came to him.

“There’s a little deli along the way,” he told her. “We can stop there.”

With that, the duo continued walking. Upon arrival at the deli, they found the place was empty, save a waitress, a middle-aged man and a teenage girl. The waitress looked up from wiping the seats by the counter and told them to sit wherever they wished. They sat at a booth far from the man and the girl and perused the menus.

After they finished their small meals, Molly excused herself and went to the bathroom. Mohinder stayed at the booth, waiting for her. While waiting, he closed his eyes and tried to process everything that had happened in the past 24 hours. He could only comprehend holding that gun to Bennet’s head, shielding Molly’s face from the sight of an injured black man and then the explosion. As visions of Peter’s glowing form dominated his thoughts, Mohinder felt the table shift under his elbows. He opened his eyes to find the man sitting across from him.

“Mister Bennet?” he asked.

“Call me Noah,” the man replied. “I’m surprised to see you around here.”

“Molly and I left the hospital about an hour ago. We stopped for some breakfast.”

“Like you ate much,” Bennet replied, gesturing to the half nibbled nova lox bagel on the plate in front of Mohinder.

Mohinder rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know where I can take Molly. My apartment is in ruins, and I’m not going back to Kirby Plaza.”

Bennet smirked. “Finally figured them out, huh?”

“They’re not getting their hands on Molly.”

“And technically, you won’t, either.”

Mohinder looked at Bennet. “What do you mean?”

“Your visa expires next week. Then what will happen to Molly?”

“I...”

“Don’t worry, Doctor Suresh. I know a way we can fix that.”

“Fix....”

“And move Molly somewhere safe, since you insist on protecting her.”

“Much like you are with Claire.”

At that, Bennet’s face softened. “True. So, do you want to fix this?”

Mohinder nodded. Looking up, he saw Molly standing just outside the restrooms.

“Molly,” he asked, “what’s wrong?”

Molly locked eyes with the geneticist pointed at Bennet. With that, Mohinder got up and joined her where she stood. He brushed away strands of hair that fell in her face, wondering if he would ever find brown locks slipping between his fingers.

“Molly,” he whispered, “Mister Bennet says he knows a way to get us to a safe place. Do you want to know what that is?”

The little girl shrugged but took Mohinder’s hand. They walked back to the booth with Molly sticking by Mohinder’s side. Once they were seated, Bennet ended a call on his cell phone.

“I’ve arranged for you to go to Florida,” he said as Mohinder and Molly sat down.

“Whereabouts?” Mohinder asked.

“The address and the name of the person who you will meet are on this sheet of paper. I have informed your contact that you will be there in three days.”

During the conversation, Claire walked over to the booth where the rest of the group congregated, discussing where Mohinder and Molly would go and what they needed to do once they made it to relative safety. She handed Mohinder a piece of paper with a key wrapped in it. He unfolded the paper and read the address written inside. Trying not to cry, he nodded at Claire, the only expression of gratitude he could manage.

~*~*~

Shawn LeLand glanced at the clock across from the nurses’ station. She cursed under her breath that it was only six thirty five in the morning. Only about a million things could go wrong before shift change, she thought. At least tonight had been slower than usual, making Bennet’s pseudo-request less annoying. He was lucky to have called her while she stole a moment for a break; he could have called her in the middle of an operation to remove a pole from some poor sap’s head.

“Earth paging Doctor LeLand. Earth paging Doctor LeLand.”

Shawn turned her head to find the source of the voice and found a petite woman to her right. She rolled her eyes at her fellow trauma surgeon, who was occupied with pulling her ebony locks into something resembling a bun.

“Good morning to you, too, Malloy,” she muttered with a friendly eye roll.

“Somehow, I doubt you’re daydreaming about your job,” the other woman repiled.

“Actually, Yolanda, tonight hasn’t been so bad. ICU is only half full, and only one person coded.”

“Then what has you pulling the space cadet routine?”

Shawn cast her eyes around the unit. A couple nurses milled about the station, juggling clipboards and typing information into the computers. Beeping monitors and the muted whoosh of scattered ventilators blended into the background yet pounded on her eardrums. The strangling quiet of the place challenged her concentration and patience.

“Break room?” she asked Yolanda.

Yolanda nodded, and the surgeons made their way out of the unit.

The break room was quieter than the unit, but there were more people present. Most of them were nurses eating while slogging through paperwork. The nurses occupied the tables closer to the door, prompting the doctors to search out a place toward the back. Once they snagged an obscure corner near some lockers, they pulled up a couple plastic chairs.

“What’s going on, Shawn?” Yolanda asked. “You don’t just spaz like that. Having problems tapping?”

Shawn shook her head. “Bennet called.”

At that, Yolanda’s mouth fell open. “Why? You’re not due for an evaluation for another two years.”

“He’s not with them anymore, or at least that's what he told me. He called asking me to provide asylum.”

“Don’t tell me-“

Shawn held up her hand. “It’s not for him. It’s for this guy, Doctor Suresh or something, and a little girl.” 

“What’s going on?”

“I’m not one hundred percent sure. I haven’t tapped anyone involved since he called, but whatever it is, it’s big.”

Yolanda dropped her head. “It must be if Bennet’s asking a favor of you.”

“I just wish I knew what it was.”

“Well, I’ll go get us some caffeine so you can tap.”

Shawn nodded in assent, and Yolanda left their impromptu meeting area.

When Yolanda left, Shawn closed her eyes and rested her head against a locker. Her strawberry blonde tresses acted as a cushion while she cleared her mind. Once her brain waves were stable, she mouthed the word “Bennet”. She soon saw a hyper paced montage of scenes: Bennet with two men in a no name diner, him firing a gun twice into Thompson’s head, him conversing with a little girl who was lying in a hospital bed and him standing outside Kirby Plaza with his daughter. Her eyes stayed closed as her mind struggled to sort out what she had seen.

Yolanda returned to the corner with two cups of coffee. She found Shawn with her eyes squeezed shut and slumped in her seat. After closing and reopening her eyes, she looked in Shawn’s chest cavity and saw her heart pumping like an over oiled piston.

“Shawn!” she hollered.

Yolanda’s clarion called jerked Shawn out of her shock. 

“Yolanda...something big happened at the company.”

~*~*~

Mohinder unlocked the door to the empty apartment, relieved to find it somewhat untouched. He guided Molly in by the shoulder before locking the door behind them. Glancing around, he located the sole bedroom and bathroom. After investigating the bedroom and checking its door, he decided to sleep on the couch.

“Whose apartment is this?” Molly asked.

“Someone Mister Bennet and I know,” Mohinder replied in full parent mode.

“Is it Peter Petrelli?”

Mohinder shifted in place. “Yes, it is.”

“Why are we here, then?”

At that, Mohinder huffed out a tired sigh. “Because Sylar destroyed my apartment.”

Molly looked up at the disheveled geneticist. “The boogeyman came after you, too?”

Mohinder bit his tongue while trying to find the best answer to the query. Finally, he said, “I had something he wanted.”

“Like what?”

Tired of the questions and run down by the fatigue catalyzed by the events of the past two days, Mohinder rubbed his temples in a fruitless attempt to clear his head. He knelt to be eye level with his little girl.

“I think we should talk after we get some sleep.”

“Okay,” she replied. “I just don’t have anything to sleep in.”

Mohinder rocked back on his heels and glanced at the ceiling. “We’ll both have to sleep in our clothes for now, Molly. After we get some sleep, we can go get some new ones.”

This answer seemed to satisfy Molly’s persistent curiosity. The two of them washed up before settling in for some diurnal sleep. He tucked her into Peter’s bed and staked out the couch for himself. He positioned himself to be able to hear any noises from the bedroom yet kept the doorway out of his line of vision. Closing his eyes, he surrendered to the exhaustion of being awake for so long.


	2. Wake Up

A cursory glance at the clock in her car’s stereo system told Shawn that nine AM was much too late for arriving home. After parking and stumbling out of her Camry hybrid, she focused on preparing herself for sleep. While stuck in rush hour traffic, she delved further into the experiences of Bennet and the person he requested her to shelter: Mohinder Suresh. Exhaustion reduced her concentration, but she had been able to piece together what had happened in New York. Part of her rejoiced in juvenile glee when she learned Bennet had the balls to shoot Thompson. The troubling part of all this was the looming question of who or what would fill the void left by the meltdown of leadership in the company. Shawn tried not to speculate on this matter while she changed into a t-shirt and green plaid pajama pants. After a pre-bed snack of a banana, Shawn dragged herself to her cluttered bedroom.

She fell on her bed, somehow managing to pull her feet up onto it. Closing her eyes, she tried to ease herself into dreamland, but sleep eluded her in spite of the physical strain her job put on her the night before. That’s when she realized she was in the terrace. It had been years since her last visit. Even though she wanted nothing more than to recharge, Shawn remained alert, wondering why she had come back to this place.

Looking around, she saw the familiar orchids had disappeared. Pigeons now perched and nested in the remains of the greenhouse. Opaque clouds dotted the sky, washing the terrace and the city below in muted hues of cyan and gray. Further observation revealed a dark chocolate colored head dotted with flecks of gray and white. The head was lower than she remembered last seeing it and soon found the rest of the person perched in a wheelchair. She stepped forward, and the wheelchair bound person swiveled to face her.

“Good morning, Shawn,” he hummed with a small smile.

“Charles?” Shawn asked, almost choking on her words in the process.

“I couldn’t take it anymore,” he replied. “That damn Angela, well, I won’t dwell on that since you’re here.”

“What do you mean? Charles, what happened to the company?”

“Right now, your guess is as good as mine.”

Shawn stepped closer to him. “Dammit! That’s not what I want to hear right now.”

Charles’s eyes widened at Shawn’s venomous bellow. “I think the more appropriate question right now is what’s going on with you?”

At that, Shawn stared at her bare feet. “Bennet called. He wants me to provide asylum.”

“Asylum?”

“For a man named Mohinder Suresh. And a little girl. He didn’t tell me much.”

Charles nodded and gestured toward a chair near the frazzled surgeon. “Have a seat. And help yourself to some apples. The late season McIntoshes are exquisite.”

Shawn lowered herself into the chair as her otherworldly mentor wheeled himself over to the wrought iron table. She picked up various apples, gauging the firmness before deciding an extra snack wouldn’t hurt anything. All the while, traffic hummed below, providing soothing white noise to quell Shawn’s mind.

“Shawn,” Charles asked, “what do you know about the company?”

“Probably more than most,” she replied. “I do know that this Suresh guy, if he actually worked for them at any point, was not around for very long. He’s a scientific version of Bennet, actually, now that I think about it.”

Charles nodded. “Sounds like Bennet needed some serious prodding to defy Thompson. You'd probably see his picture next to the definition of 'yes man' in the dictionary. Probably best that Suresh came across him first.”

Shawn chuckled in spite of herself. “Why’s that?”

As Shawn bit into the apple, Charles fixed an eye on her. “You know Thompson. I shouldn’t have to tell you.”

“Okay! Okay! I get the message. Problem is both Suresh and this little girl have fallen through some serious legal cracks. If they’re caught, I’m going to have a hell of a time explaining myself.”

“No, you won’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“Yolanda is the key. Ask her about her cardiac patients.”

Shawn cocked her head. “Cardiac?”

“Just do as I say, Shawn. How many times have I lead you wrong in the 14 years we’ve known each other?”

“Um...none?”

“Exactly. Now go get some sleep.”

~*~*~

Five hours of sleep did not begin to compensate for what Mohinder had endured. However, Molly’s safety and the contents in the envelope Bennet gave him at the deli kept him from slipping into any state resembling sound sleep. Still lying on the couch, he grabbed the envelope off the coffee table and ripped it open. Along with the information regarding his contact, he found a prepaid credit card worth 1000 dollars, a map, a set of keys and more sheets of paper. Mohinder poured over these items and picked up his cell phone. After calling his landlord to break the lease, he went to the bedroom to check on Molly. When he opened the door, he saw her sitting on the bed, tracing invisible patterns into the comforter.

“How are you feeling, Molly?” he asked her.

Molly shrugged. “Meh. I couldn’t sleep.”

Mohinder stepped into the room and sat next to Molly. “Was it a nightmare?”

She shook her head. “I just couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing someone cry and ask for Peter.”

“Peter?” he croaked.

“I thought maybe it was you, Doctor Suresh.”

Mohinder rubbed her head. “Molly, why don’t you just call me Mohinder?”

The little girl looked at Mohinder and nodded. For a moment, he watched Molly’s fingers meander along the rough material, wondering if it had felt similar patterns from its owner in the past. “I...I was asleep.”

Molly halted her pseudo-doodling. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I mean, had I been awake and crying...I’d remember that.”

“Okay. If you say so.”

With that, Molly hopped off the bed and headed for the bathroom. Mohinder glanced at the cheap alarm clock on the night stand. He realized they would have to leave soon if they planned to be in Florida by the eleventh. It was going to be a long drive. All the same, Mohinder wanted to get out of the apartment. As he returned to the living room to grab his cell phone, he spotted what looked like tear spots on the pillow.

~*~*~

Nightfall in Chennai proceeded with the same restless hustle heard in the daylight hours. Lanterns littered the overhangs and eaves, casting soft, multicolored light onto the streets below. Mothers dragged wandering children away from the thresholds to get them ready for bed. Those still on the street tugged at their muslin and linen shirts, hoping to generate a cool breeze that would chase the lingering humidity away.

The indoor activities in the city contrasted the street with its denizens tucked into the corners of buildings. On the upper floor of a wood and tin bungalow was one room where a yellow light peeked out from behind dense curtains. The draperies hid the pacing and packing done by a geneticist preparing for her first business trip. For Mira Shenoy, this trip to the United States distracted her from her passion: managing the efforts of genetic researchers in southern India. She had only been overseeing the genetic research department for a few weeks, yet she was already appointed to a special committee formed in conjunction with Yamagato Industries and L’Aura. As Mira packed, she reflected on the announcement of this trip. 

“Miss Shenoy.”

Mira looked up from the paperwork scattered across her desk only to find her boss standing in front of her. “Yes, Doctor Chawd?”

The lanky man closed the door behind him. “I come bearing urgent information. The head of the Linderman Group was found dead earlier today.”

Mira cocked her head. “Do they know the cause?”

Doctor Chawd shook his head. “They’re saying he was murdered, but we still don’t know any details. Other members of the group’s core leadership were also killed.”

“So who is in charge?”

Her boss handed her an envelope. “They’re forming a new leadership committee made up of other branches of the company, including ours.”

She grabbed the envelope and gave it a once over. “What’s in here?”

“Travel papers. You’ve been assigned to the genetics sector of the Linderman Group. Nearly all of the men in charge of that area were either killed or have fled the country.”

Mira blinked and set the envelope on the desk. “Well...who will be in charge of the research department here?”

“I’ll be presiding over it, effective today. Pack your bags, Mira. It’s going to be a long stay.”

Returning to the present, Mira zipped up her second suitcase and placed it outside her bedroom door next to its larger counterpart. She glanced at herself in the mirror. Puffiness made her dark, round orbs sink back into her face and hold light as well as unpolished granite. After assessing her tired figure, she decided to get some sleep. She had thirteen hours before she left Chennai. At the same time, Mira understood not even a good night’s sleep would prepare her for the longest journey of her life.

The sun only began to creep over the horizon line when Mira emerged from her slumber. She nibbled on some rava umpa while waiting in the building’s threshold for the company car. After an hour, the car arrived, teetering under the weight of suitcases tied to the roof. Mira gathered her belongings and headed over to the waiting vehicle.

The driver added her bags to the top of the hatchback vehicle while Mira slid in the back. With that, the driver climbed back in and shuttled her and two other gentlemen to the airport. As they traversed the roads of Chennai, one of the men removed a file from his attaché case. He read over it for a few moments before addressing the others in the car.

“Mira, Sanjay,” he said, “I have some information on the genetics sector of the Linderman Group. From I’ve read here, it seems we will have a lot of work to do when it comes to rebuilding and restructuring the sector.”

“Restructuring?” Sanjay asked.

“Two of the sector’s key employees have abandoned the company with two subjects the group was planning to evaluate. Both subjects were girls under the age of consent and are being treated as kidnapping victims.

“What do we know about the subjects?” Mira asked.

“Nothing specific, but interestingly, both were on the list formulated by Chandra Suresh.”

“I thought we had discounted Doctor Suresh’s work,” she countered.

“We did,” the other gentleman replied. “The Linderman Group did not. It turns out Doctor Suresh’s list was getting them the results they wanted.”

“Did Doctor Suresh work for the Linderman Group,” Sanjay asked.

“Not as far as we can tell. It seems they had succeeded in getting his son involved.”

“Mohinder,” Mira mumbled.

The men glanced at Mira. 

“Do you know this Mohinder Suresh, Mira?”Sanjay asked.

She nodded.

“How do you know him?”

“That’s none of your business,” Mira fired back. “However, I do know that after his father’s funeral, Mohinder returned to New York. His mother told me his work visa had been approved.”

“Do you know how long the visa was valid?”

Mira shook her head. “I don’t think Mohinder would share that information with anyone in India.”

The car arrived at the airport just as the sun’s glow washed Chennai in shades of pink and gold. It took the efforts of all four of them to bring down the luggage and haul it to the check in desk. All the while, Mira contemplated the new information. She soon realized she could not wait to start her work in the United States.

~*~*~

First he heard the beeping. Then he heard distant chatter. When he opened his eyes, he encountered an austere wall of white. Only a pair of green chairs and off white cabinets provided any semblance of color in the room. Feeling the sheets and glancing at the rest of the room, he figured out where he was and located the call button. A few seconds later, a petite woman with alabaster skin and light brown hair ambled to his bedside.

“Good evening, Mister Petrelli,” she chirped in a lilty accent.

“Nathan,” he whispered.

The nurse looked at him. “Who’s Nathan?”

“Nathan Petrelli. He’s my brother. He was just elected to Congress.”

At that, the nurse shook her head. “The news reports that Nathan Petrelli washed up on the shores of Clare this morning. He was thoroughly burned.”

“Burned? Clare?”

“I’m sorry...Peter. I didn’t realize that you were related. I thought it was just a coincidence.”

Peter’s lip trembled. “Then where....”

“You’re in Bexhill Hospital. You washed up on our shores two days ago.”

Peter continued to stare at the nurse as he attempted to shake the lingering grogginess muddling his mind. “Bexhill?”

“In England,” she replied. “We only knew your name because that part of your identification card had not melted. For some reason, the top half stayed somewhat intact. We didn’t know who to contact.”

“How did I end up all the way in England?”

The nurse shrugged. “That’s what we’ve been trying to figure out.”

With that, the nurse obtained Peter’s vitals before heading back to the nurses’ station.

Peter stayed up a good portion of the night, half watching television and half spacing out. When the news reports aired, they spent a mere minute covering Nathan’s death and the unceremonious discovery of his body off the western coast of Ireland. All Peter could do was lie in bed and assess his current state. His hands, arms and torso were wrapped, but the bandages remained a crisp snow white on the surface. He glanced at the monitors and determined he was healthy enough to be discharged. As he contemplated a hasty escape, he realized that even if he could leave, he was nowhere near home and had no means of getting there. Part of him wondered if he even wanted to return. Out of ideas, he settled on getting some sleep.

A force lifting his arm drew Peter out of his slumber. He attempted to open his eyes, but the glare of the white room overwhelmed his orbs. Squeezing them shut, he watched a montage of images from the explosion. In his mind, his glowing hands, Nathan’s stoic expression and flashes of yellow-white flickered like someone pushing the buttons on a microfilm machine. He heard a yell certain to wake the dead but found he was the source of it.

“Mister Petrelli! Calm down!” a voice barked.

Peter opened his eyes and saw the other people in the room hovering over him. Two appeared to be doctors while the third looked like the nurse he talked to earlier. When he saw they were okay, he struggled to sit up straight and catch his breath.

“What...happened?” he asked in between huffs of breath.

“You tell us,” one of the men answered. “We came in to examine your injuries, and you just started screaming like you saw the devil.”

“The explosion,” Peter mumbled.

“Explosion?” the other man asked.

“Me,” Peter replied. “I killed Nathan. He...died.”

The three medical personnel members swapped curious glances.

“Explosion,” one of them finally mumbled. “How could you kill...Nathan in an explosion?”

Peter fixed them a look. “You wouldn’t believe me. No one would.”

“What do you mean?” the nurse asked.

"I am radioactive.”

The nurse shot a worried glance at the men.

“Let’s get him tested,” the men chorused.


	3. Arrival

“Damn! I’m later than I thought.”

Shawn threw on a jacket and grabbed her purse before running out the door. By some sort of miracle she managed not to trip over herself before stopping at the green Honda Accord idling at the end of her driveway. She could see Yolanda watching her from the inside and stumbled into the passenger’s seat.

“You sure you’re awake there, Shawn?” Yolanda asked.

Shawn rolled her eyes. “Forgive me for actually getting some sleep.”

“Touchy, touchy,” her friend muttered as she shifted the sedan into reverse.

The women cruised down Boynton Beach Boulevard with the windows half open. Had their speed generated less background noise, they would have rolled the windows all the way down to take advantage of the crisp but not too cold air that made Florida a treat in the autumn months. Only amber streetlights and the waxing moon cut through the inky skies. They wove their way through the seasonal traffic on their way to the east side of town, ready for an evening of casual dining and preparing for asylum.

After parking and finding the restaurant, Shawn and Yolanda follow the host to a secluded booth near the kitchen. Once the waiter took their drink order, they got down to business.

“Well, Shawn, they should be arriving soon,” Yolanda said as she looked at the front of her menu.

“And of course they have to arrive when I’m scheduled to work. Shit. My house is a disaster area,” Shawn grumbled.

“Need help cleaning?”

Shawn cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t you have to work tomorrow?”

“I’m on call, so I don’t think it will matter.”

“I figured as much.”

The waiter returned and interrupted their conversation to drop off their cocktails. Yolanda proceeded to order, prompting Shawn to pick a dish at random from the menu. With that, the waiter left shaking his head as he retreated to the kitchen.

“Dammit,” Shawn hissed once the waiter left. “Must you always make me do that?”

Yolanda giggled. “Betcha wish you could see through menus and such.”

Shawn extended her middle finger and flashed it in Yolanda’s general direction. “At least I don’t read those shock rags that litter your house.”

“What can I say?” Yolanda asked with a shrug. “I’m hoping to find some proof that we’re not the only weirdos.”

This comment made the redhead clench her napkin. “You know damn well we’re not, Malloy. The company knows about all of us.”

Yolanda cast a worried glance at her friend. “About the company...”

"I think they’re going to rebuild it. It seems Thompson and Linderman are dead. When I went in for my last eval, I overheard something that sounded like a contingency plan.”

“A contingency plan?”

“Yes. Would you like me to tap one of them so I can get it verbatim?”

Yolanda watched Shawn close her eyes. “Looks like I don’t get a choice in the matter.”

Meanwhile, Shawn channeled herself into the moment when she overheard the details of the contingency plan. She saw herself on an examination table with electrodes stuck to her temples. From there, she moved toward a room adjacent to where she found her past self. She spotted Thompson and a towering woman in a tan business suit looking over some papers. One of the charts they had spanned the desk. Afraid they would spot her, Shawn moved just to the right of the door frame and made an attempt to listen.

To her chagrin, Shawn discovered she could hear very little despite her proximity to the open door. What she did hear reiterated the bare minimum information: that the company was going to develop a plan for a transfer of leadership. Just as she was about to return to the present, Shawn heard the woman mention three specific names.

“So the genetics sector will be run by agents from L’Aura, Yamagato and The Fountain.”

Thompson murmured an assent. Shawn inched closer to the door frame, but she could not pick up any more of the conversation. All she heard were indecipherable whispers and the rustling of paper products. She waited a couple minutes before returning to her present time. Once she returned, she opened her eyes and snapped her fingers to alert Yolanda.

Her fellow surgeon looked up from an intense study of the champagne colored table linens. “Find out anything?”

Shawn picked up her martini glass and took a swig. “Only a few names of corporations.”

Yolanda arched an eyebrow. “Names of corporations?”

“Yeah,” Shawn replied. “They’d supposedly run the genetics sector of the company.”

“Would we know any of them?”

“We’re familiar with Yamagato, but there were two names that sound like...newer companies or something.”

“Think they could be international branches?”

Shawn shrugged. “Possibly. It’s hard to say for sure. I couldn’t get any further information about either of them.”

“I wonder if they have any stake in biotechnology. From what I understand, Yamagato’s forays are not that impressive.”

“I don’t know.”

After dinner, Yolanda and Shawn returned to her villa for an all night cleaning session. They churned through several loads of laundry and a box of trash bags. Shawn opened the sofa bed in the spare bedroom while Yolanda rearranged dressers to provide extra storage for the guests. By sunrise, the women fought to keep their eyes open. Still, they pushed on to make the beds and stash knick knacks that got in the way. Yolanda left once those tasks were accomplished, and Shawn fell on the couch still adorned in her cleaning clothes. 

“Okay, Molly, we’re approaching exit 86. Where do we go from there?”

Molly played with her seatbelt and looked at Mohinder. “You make a right once we’re off the ramp.”

“From there?”

The little girl picked up a piece of paper on the floor near the gear shaft. She peered at the near-microscopic handwriting before continuing. “We go to El Clair Ranch and make a U-turn.”

“Is Shawn LeLand at his house?” Mohinder asked.

Molly closed her eyes for a moment. “She.”

At that, Mohinder looked at the girl as he tried to figure out what she meant by that single word.

“Shawn LeLand,” Molly replied. “A girl.”

“What? You mean Shawn’s a kid, too?”

Molly shook her head. “I think she’s a little younger than you.”

Mohinder glanced at the sun kissed Florida landscape surrounding them. “Oh. Okay.”

After exiting the Turnpike and making a couple wrong turns upon entering the development, Mohinder pulled the black Nissan Sentra into the concrete space in front of Shawn’s villa. Molly glanced at the paper and peered through the windshield at the exterior of the house.

“This is it,” Molly said.

Mohinder flashed a weak smile and looked at the maroon Camry parked next to their car. “Looks like she’s home.”

“She doesn’t work?” Molly asked.

“I don’t know. We’ll find out soon enough.”

The duo stumbled out of the car, squinting once they were immersed in the Florida sunshine. After a short walk, Mohinder knocked on the faded brown door, and they waited for a few moments for a response. Just as they were about to go back to the car, they heard the click of a lock. A woman with light red hair splayed in various directions opened the door. She leaned against the door frame and focused on the two people in front of her.

“What the hell is this?” she asked.

Mohinder’s mouth fell open. “Excuse me? I do have a child with me.”

Shawn blinked. “Oh. Jeez, I’m sorry. Are you Mohinder Suresh?”

The geneticist nodded. “And the young girl with me is Molly Walker.”

Molly looked up from her spot next to Mohinder and waved.

“I’m Shawn LeLand,” the groggy woman replied. “Come in.”

The three made their way into the house, and Shawn managed to wake up enough to give a tour of her small home. Once Mohinder and Molly became familiar with the territory, they dragged in their belongings from the car. Shawn whipped up some turkey and cheese sandwiches as a late lunch for all of them. They gathered in the living room space to eat and get acquainted. Shawn took the sky blue couch while Molly dragged Mohinder to the futon. Molly curled up with the hand knit sun, moon and stars blanket and used Mohinder’s lap as a pillow. Mohinder, meanwhile, nibbled on a sandwich while soaking in the surroundings.

“So,” Shawn mumbled, “how was the drive down here?”

"Not too bad,” Mohinder replied. “Aside from the traumatizing visit to South of the Border, I managed to get through the trip relatively unscathed.”

“But the Ferris Wheel was fun,” Molly interjected. “And I remember you laughed at the jumping beans.”

“Yes, that was amusing,” Mohinder conceded. “Still, it was just too...colorful for my taste.”

“This coming from a man who lived in southern India,” Shawn mused. 

Mohinder chugged from a bottle of water. “Yes, but those colors serve a purpose.”

“So do the ones at South of the Border.”

“Yes. To scare everyone.”

The three of them burst out laughing at Mohinder’s retort.

“Well, when you put it that way...” Shawn mumbled. “Anyway, I’m going to take a shower. Have to work tonight.”

“Where do you work?” Molly asked.

“At the hospital.”

“Oh, okay. Are you a nurse?”

Mohinder flinched at the n word, a motion Shawn caught in her peripheral vision.

“Actually,” she replied, “I’m a trauma surgeon.”

“Does that mean you fix people who are traumatized?”

Shawn and Mohinder chuckled.

With that, Shawn disappeared into her bedroom. For a while, Mohinder sat on the futon, stroking Molly’s hair as she drifted off to sleep. He spotted the remote control on the mahogany coffee table but decided to enjoy the quiet blanketing the room. The sound of Shawn running the shower soothed Mohinder, and he soon joined Molly in dozing.

~*~*~

“Here you are, Miss Shenoy.”

Mira joined the young man in dress slacks and ecru polo in front of the matte black door. The man fished a key out of his pocket and unlocked it, gaining access to Mira's home away from home. Opening it, they saw a sprawling suite. They wandered in, and Mira noted the warm seating area that greeted them. Her guide placed her suitcases by the tan leather couch dominating the seating area. She made her way to the bedroom, which contained a large bed draped with a red comforter, a walk-in closet and an unobstructed view of the plaza’s courtyard, where the red continued in the abstract sculpture. Across the room was the well appointed bathroom complete with shower, whirlpool tub and dressing area. Mira emerged from the bedroom and found the man still standing by the couch.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“It’s nice,” she replied. “Linderman treated his visitors quite well.”

“Indeed he did. The office is right over here. You have wi-fi, ethernet, data port and faxing services available. There is a phone list on the desk with all the numbers and extensions you will need.”

“Thank you. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get some rest.”

“Understood. If you do need anything at anytime, just call.”

“I will.”

With that, the guide left the room. Once he closed the door, Mira retrieved her larger suitcase and dragged it to the bedroom. After some unpacking, she gathered what she needed for a bath. While she soaked, Mira pondered the information she received on her way to the United States. She wondered if she would be able to view the list created by Chandra Suresh. During the flight, Sanjay mentioned something about Mohinder creating an updated version of the list, but his phrasing made it sound like a rumor. Mira hoped tomorrow would bring an answer to this teasing query.

The next day heralded Mira’s first full day in her new job. After a quiet breakfast in her room, she made her way to the 48th floor for a meeting. To her surprise, she found Kaito Nakamura chairing the meeting. He had visited her department at The Fountain a year ago, but she did not know the extent of his involvement in the genetics sector. She was also surprised at his fluency in English.

“Good morning,” he greeted the group. “Now that everyone has arrived from L’Aura, Yamagato and The Fountain, I’d like to get you started on the rebuilding of the genetics sector here in the Linderman Group.”

Kaito sipped some water before continuing. “The nine of you assembled here will be the upper tier management of the sector. You will be in charge of the hiring of new associates, continuing the search for specials and promoting additional genetic research.”

The next 45 minutes of the meeting consisted of getting the new managers caught up to speed on the management structure of the Group and current projects still labeled as ongoing in the organization. Mira tried to act enthused, but her mind kept wandering to the list. After a while, Kaito declared a break in the meeting. The new managers stayed in the conference room to nibble on fruits and pastries. Mira sat evaluating her choices when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Looking up, she found Kaito standing next to her.

“Mister Nakamura,” she said.

“Would you mind if we stepped outside?” he asked her.

Mira shook her head, and they made their way out of the conference room.

Once they were in the hallway, Kaito lead her away from the door. They made their way to the elevator lobby to talk.

“What is important enough to merit a private conversation?” Mira asked.

“I’ve heard you know Mohinder Suresh,” Kaito replied. “Maybe you could help us find him.”

“I am of the belief that both Suresh men were pursuing fallacies.”

“Miss Shenoy, I strongly suggest you set those beliefs aside.”

Mira cocked her head at the Japanese elder. “Why would you say that?”

“Because these people are real. The Sureshes merely found a way to know who they are and where they’re located.”

“This is impossible! People do not have the ability to clone themselves or move objects with their minds or anything of that sort.”

“Miss Shenoy, I've learned that my son can bend space and time.”

At that, Mira’s eyes widened, and she stumbled into a silk Ficus tree behind her. “So they were right.”

Kaito nodded. “And Mohinder has taken it upon himself to protect one of them, an orphaned girl with the ability to track people’s locations.”

“Like a GPS system,” Mira mumbled as she got back on her feet.

“Exactly. Now I’m about to tell everyone what their exact jobs will be. However, I wanted to tell you that you will be responsible for tracking down the individuals with the ability to absorb abilities. It is a difficult yet prestigious job, and because of that, I wanted to inform you first.”

Mira nodded, a wan smile crossing her lips. “Who had that job?”

“A man named Richard Thompson. He was working with Mohinder immediately before his death.”

“On what?”

"Curing the orphaned girl of a very rare disease.”

“Interesting.”

“Indeed. Now let’s get back to the meeting.”

Once the meeting ended, Mira made her way to what had been Thompson’s office. She took the elevator two floors up, passing an extensive laboratory on the way to the office. Upon arrival, Mira searched Thompson’s inbox and filing cabinets in search of any connection between him and Mohinder. Her search proved fruitless. In the process, though, she stumbled across a USB drive. Curious, she took it to the computer perched on the desk. After a little fiddling with the electronic beast, she accessed the contents of the drive, clicking through files before finding the list. Opening the list threw Mira for a loop.

When she opened the list, she found nearly ten thousand names and locations. Many on the first page were from the United States, but Mira soon spotted names from other parts of the world: New Zealand, China, Japan, Iraq, Kenya and even her homeland. She sat and read through the list for hours. Just as she was about to close it and get some dinner, she spotted a familiar name toward the bottom of the page.

Ananda Shenoy. 

~*~*~

Pulsing bass shook the plywood under Ananda's green and black Pumas as she worked her magic in the booth. As the synthesized strings sang through the numerous rooms in the club, the deejay bobbed her head and tweaked the equalizer. She looked around at the grinding masses. Her light man bathed the patrons in an electric blue wash with white dots circulating at random intervals. Nothing stood out on the dance floor, but a twinkle at the bar diverted Ananda's attention. She prepped the transition between the two remixes queued in the CD player so she could focus on what was happening at the bar.

Ananda fixed a monocular to her right eye and scanned the bar for anything that would provoke a reflection. She found a small clear bottle resting near the drink rail. The bartender set two drinks by the bottle, and a man blocked her view of the contents on the bar. Ananda backed up and saw the man grab the drinks off the bar. She looked at the bottle, which was a little emptier at this point, and she refocused her attention on the man. After seeing his face, she set the monocular on the console.

"Roland!" she shouted.

Her light man looked up from the control panel. "What now, Ananda?"

"There's a small bottle on the bar with a dropper lid. Fetch it before anyone else uses it!"

"Another GHB user?"

"What else?"

Roland shook his head. "I swear, Ananda. You never let these go."

She shook her head. "Hell no. Now chip!"

With that, Roland left, shouting something about hiring someone to go on these semi-covert ops. Ananda, ignoring his rant, focused her attention on the hunter she spotted at the bar. She listened to the downbeat before shifting her thoughts. Fixing her eyes on the man, she channeled all her thoughts to him. Once she could no longer think about him having a permanent flaccid dick, she shook her head. If Ananda had her way, she would have just tapped him on the shoulder, which was more accurate and required less energy than using her mind to alter the subject's physiology. Instead, she watched as he looked down at his pants in bewilderment. The man dropped the drinks and sprinted to the bathroom, leaving the girl to glance at him and then the broken glass and alcohol pooled at her feet.

"Perfect," Ananda whispered before turning her attention back to the music.

~*~*~

Through the darkness, Peter heard the din of everyday hospital activity. He could hear and feel his surroundings, not to mention the effects of the tests the doctors put him through. His skin still itched from the sensation of needle pricks all over his body, and he could still hear the rolling of the gurney in his head. In spite of the countless invasions of privacy, all Peter could do was lie in bed and wait for it all to be over. So he kept his eyes shut and listened for any indication of being subjected to another test. Footsteps right next to his bed interrupted his aural vigil.

“Are you awake, Peter?”

Peter opened his right eye and found one of the doctors standing next to him.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” the doctor continued. “Anyway, we ran some tests. You’re not radioactive. If anything...your injuries are one hundred percent healed.”

Peter opened his other eye and scanned his body. His arms had returned to their natural creamy color, and he soon found the only fabric on him was his hospital gown. He braved touching his head only to find his floppy locks had disappeared.

“I...I’m not?” he asked.

The doctor shook his head. “If we could release you, we would.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well...you’re not here legally, and we have had no luck in contacting your family.”

Peter pushed himself into a reclining position. “Try calling my mother, Angela Petrelli.”

“We’ve tried to call her three times at three different phone numbers. She hasn’t answered.”

“What about Heidi, my brother’s wife?”

“She answered, but the connection was cut just as quickly.”

“Have you called my niece? Claire?”

The doctor rubbed his forehead. “No, we haven’t. Do you know where we can reach her?”

Peter lay there, trying to think of her phone number. Every time he saw Claire in his mind, he only saw the girl holding a gun at him and unable to control the deluge of tears streaming down her face. He shook his head.

“No, I can’t,” he finally replied. “Maybe you can find her adoptive father, Noah Bennet.”

The doctor nodded. “We’ll see what we can do. Until we know that you can be discharged properly, though, you’ll have to stay here.”

Peter mumbled an assent, and the doctor left the room to continue his rounds.

This time, Peter spent his sleepless night watching it turn into day as the sun rose over Bexhill. Another nurse stopped by to take his vitals, and he asked her for something to read. She returned with the day’s copy of The Times. He flipped through it and stumbled upon his brother’s name in the headlines. According to the article, Nathan’s body had been confirmed with dental records and shipped back to the States. The funeral was set for November 17. Peter checked the date on the front of the paper. He found he only had one day at the most to return to New York. He threw the paper on the bed before burying his face in his hands. For a moment, he wept without sobs as he struggled to comprehend his predicament. As he cried, Peter figured out what he needed to do.

He strode through the halls of the hospital until he found the exit. As he walked out the door, he heard one of the janitors mumble something about the hospital ghosts opening the doors just to drive the staff crazy. Peter chuckled at the comment but stopped laughing when he realized he could not feel his toes or testes. Cursing himself for walking out in a flimsy cotton gown, he snuck into a clothing store that had just opened. He stared at the racks, trying to figure out the English clothing size system. After a little searching and guessing, he found what appeared to be adequate pieces for a transatlantic flight. He snuck into a fitting room, and once he was dressed, he snuck out the back. Standing in the lot behind the store, Peter took several deep breaths to help clear his mind. He crouched a bit and propelled himself into the air. It was time to go home.


	4. Beyond What the Eye Can See

“Watch me, Mohinder! ” Molly shouted from the monkey bars.

“I’m watching!”

With that, Molly crossed the bars, hands skipping over every other one. She made it to the platform on the other side and swung her legs up for the landing. When she planted her feet firmly on the platform, Mohinder clapped and cheered.

“That was excellent, Molly,” he said as a luminous smile crossed his face.

Shawn looked over at the beaming man. “This is the happiest I’ve seen you since you got here.”

Mohinder shrugged. “It’s just good to see her active. She’s been so sick.”

"From what?”

“A virus that broke down her blood. The transfusions seem to be working.”

Shawn arched an eyebrow. “Transfusions?”

“My blood,” Mohinder said. “I discovered I was immune to it. So I did some transfusions, and Yolanda says that her body is able to ward off the virus.”

At that, Shawn smirked. “How did Yolanda deduce this?”

“She wouldn’t tell me.”

“Oh, now that ruins half the fun.”

“What do you mean?”

Shawn sipped some soda. “You mean to tell me Yolanda hasn’t told you what she can do?”

Mohinder shook his head and then stared at Shawn, a smile creeping on his lips. “What she can do? As in...an ability?”

It was Shawn’s turn to smile. “Oh, you better believe it! She has an ability, alright. Torments me with it all the time, joking that her ability is better than mine.”

“What can she do?”

The surgeon chuckled. “The woman has super vision.”

Mohinder’s mouth fell open. "Super vision?”

“Yeah. Yolanda can see infrared, ultraviolet, straight through solid objects and has incredible binocular range. She says it caused her some problems as a kid.”

“How so?”

“Two cataract operations, seeing her parents have sex behind closed doors, shit like that.”

Mohinder nodded. “Yeah, that sounds like a bit much for a child. How old was she when she realized she could see through solid objects?”

“As far as I know, that happened when she was eight. She actually started to see waves outside the visible light spectrum when she was five, I think.”

The geneticist rubbed his face and shook his head in an attempt to digest this new information. “I thought my father was crazy in believing that people with these...abilities existed. Now, I feel like the freak.”

Shawn flashed him a thin smile. “Trust me, Mohinder. You don’t want an ability.”

“Yours has given you that much trouble?”

“Seeing what people go through...gruesome,” Shawn mumbled. She looked out toward the parking lot and sniffled.

“I’m sorry,” Mohinder whispered as he grasped the redhead’s shoulder.

“No,” Shawn choked out as she shook him off. “Just keep an eye on Molly.”

Shawn sprung up from the bench and sprinted away from the playground. She sprinted up a trail that ran parallel to the Intracoastal Waterway. After some running, she stumbled and fell on an Australian Pine just off the pavement. Leaning against the tree trunk, Shawn tried to calm her breathing. However, she could not prevent tears from slipping out of her eyes. For a moment, she sobbed while visions of people’s deaths flooded her mind. Her last vision was of a burst of yellow-white light and clouds parting from the force of the blast. Emerging from that vision, she found herself in a tapping session.

A ray of light trickled into the room through the circular window. Shawn took a step, but the light did little good in keeping her from running into what must have been a desk. Rubbing the outside of her thigh, Shawn spotted a strip of golden light on the floor. She sank to the floor and crept toward the strip. The sound of running water made her realize she was near the bathroom. Still, she crept closer. In spite of the water, Shawn heard what sounded like gasps for breath clashing with something squishy.

“Thank god I do not have the ability to see through this door,” Shawn muttered when she realized what the sounds were.

The strip of light provided no help for figuring out how to get out of the room. Shawn sat outside the bathroom trying to determine which way the door opened. A cry from the other room interrupted her ponderations.

“Peter!”

Shawn flinched at the cry. For a moment, she tried to place the voice. She heard the water being turned off followed by incoherent mumbling. After some more eavesdropping, Shawn realized Mohinder was in the bathroom. When she heard the knob turn, she slid on the floor, not stopping until she figured she was under the bed. She saw the door open, and she gagged on the steam escaping the bathroom. Meanwhile, Mohinder went about getting ready for bed. Every once in a while, he mumbled something about Peter, but within minutes, he fell asleep. Shawn stayed under the bed, trying to decide what to do. Just as she gathered up the courage to head for the door, she heard a ringing sound. The ringing grew shrill, prompting Shawn to clap her hands over her ears. She blinked and found herself back in the present. The ringing sound turned out to be her phone. Scrambling, she fished it out of her pocket of her gray hoodie to take the call.

“LeLand,” she uttered into her phone.

“Good afternoon, Shawn,” a humming baritone cooed. “How goes the asylum?”

Shawn cleared her throat. “Not too bad. Molly’s health is improving from what Mohinder has told me.”

“Good,” Bennet replied. “Any word on Mohinder’s visa?”

“The extension should be approved by tomorrow. He’s already started applying for a Green Card and a job.”

“Any good prospects?”

“He's interviewing for a visiting professor spot at FAU. The green card process might take a while, though.”

“Okay. What will Mohinder be doing in the mean time?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Alright.”

After a moment of silence, Shawn pressed on. “So...just calling to check up? That doesn’t sound like you, Bennet.”

“Actually, I need to ask you and Molly a couple favors.”

Shawn sighed and leaned back into the tree trunk. “Look, I’ll do whatever you want, but leave the kid alone. I don’t think that she’s had a normal life for a while.”

“Shawn, does the name Petrelli ring a bell?”

For a moment, she contemplated this. “Yeah. He’s that guy that was burned to death.”

“That guy, as you call him, has a brother, Peter Peterelli. I need you to find out what has happened to Peter.”

Shawn looked up and saw Mohinder and Molly strolling down the trail. “Why?”

“He was in a Bexhill hospital yesterday, but somehow, he’s gone missing.”

“Oh, Jesus H. Christ, Bennet! What the hell do you expect me to do?”

“What you do best. Call me on my cell when you find out.”

“If you insist....”

“Shawn, he has the potential to go nuclear. As in explode.”

“And you’ve seen this in action.”

"Yes!”

“Okay! Okay! Damn, Bennet. Always the high strung bastard.”

“Yeah, well, I need the information, the sooner the better.”

“I’m on it.”

Shawn hung up the phone right as her charges approached the tree. Molly chattered to Mohinder about something but stopped when the two of them arrived at the tree. She waved at Shawn, who waved back with the hand holding her phone.

“What brings you out here?” Mohinder asked.

“Business call,” Shawn answered. 

“I’m sure. Now why are you out here under this tree? I have a certain someone pestering me for lunch.”

Shawn glanced at a grinning Molly. “Really. I think that as her surrogate dad it’s your responsibility to provide her meals.”

Molly giggled, and Mohinder replied, “She insists we have company for lunch, specifically some redheaded company.”

That comment earned them a good-natured eye roll from Shawn. “Oh, okay. When you put it that way, let’s go. I know of a good deli in the area.”

After the park escapades (including lunch), the trio returned to Shawn’s villa. While Molly napped, Shawn and Mohinder convened in the living room. During lunch, Shawn mulled over Bennet’s request. After learning of the existence of Peter Petrelli and accidentally tapping Mohinder’s past, Shawn tried to determine if there was a connection. She kept quiet while Mohinder flipped through the channels. He settled on a Discovery Channel special devoted to the processes for making various goods. Shawn tried to pay attention, but the urge to find out about Peter tugged at her brain. After a few minutes of failing miserably in her quest to pay attention to the process of making erasers for pencils, Shawn retreated to her bedroom.

Once in her room, she leaned against the door and closed her eyes. In seconds, she found herself in a hospital. For a moment, the surgeon listened for clues as to her exact whereabouts. Her eavesdropping only revealed that she was in a coastal town in England. Once she figured out that town was Bexhill, she went to the reception desk to find out where Peter Petrelli was located. After some walking, Shawn arrived at the room. A young man with no hair and a mix of burns and pallor lay in a gurney, oblivious to the world. Shawn stepped closer to the bed.

“Peter?” she asked. “Can you hear me?”

She watched the man for any signs of conscious comprehension.

“Peter, if you can hear me, raise your right hand.”

Peter continued to lie motionless. Shawn stepped away from the bed and peeked into the hallway. No one lingered in the hall, and she determined that the nurses' station was far enough away that no one would be able to hear her. 

“Okay, Peter. I need you to do me a favor. Yeah, I know I’m a doctor, and I’m taking a big gamble. Just bear with me. Things have gotten really weird really quickly. I think you can sympathize. Anyway, I need you to memorize this phone number. Call it as soon as you leave the hospital.”

For a moment, Shawn observed Peter in his unconscious state. The top of his head was wrapped in bandages turning yellow from pus. She also noted his bald head and scorched scalp. Looking at his arms, Shawn saw more of the same and wondered what exactly had happened to him. The doctor in her wondered what the medical staff had done to keep him alive; the mind-tapping part of her wondered how bad the head trauma was to keep him fron healing. After reevaluating the activity of the ward, she turned to face Peter once again.

“Okay,” she muttered. “The number is five six one, seven two two, eight nine four eight. Expect either Mohinder or myself to answer. Please call. There are people looking for you, looking to you for help. Just let us know where you are.”

Shawn walked away from the bed and leaned against wall. Shutting her eyes, she steadied her brain waves in preparation of finding Peter in a different time. After a couple moments, she opened her eyes to a beach. Though the skies were still dark, faint light illuminated the shoreline enough to give Shawn a basic sense of direction. The faint sunrise guided Shawn’s eyes east while incandescent porch lights behind her hinted at civilization brave enough to spend their days on the shoreline even as winter approached. Aside from waves lapping at the sand, Shawn shivered at the lack of sound in the area.

“Peter, where are you?” she whispered.

Just as the words left her mouth, Shawn heard a piercing sound overhead. She peered at the sky and spotted what looked like a shooting star coursing westward through the atmosphere. She shook her head.  
That wasn’t Peter, was it? she thought. It looked like a shooting star, but it was too small to be that.  
Realizing she had no idea where she was, Shawn decided to leave the shoreline.

The surgeon wandered the narrow streets, looking for any clues as to her location. During her walk, all she found was a car with a Virginia license plate. A gust of icy wind almost knocked Shawn over, and she wondered when Virginia autumns became so biting. She also had no idea what connection, if any, Peter had to that particular state. Just as she was about to travel a little further into Peter’s past, a man walking his black lab approached her.

“Miss, you’re going to catch a cold out here!” he shouted.

Shawn looked down at her brown polo shirt and faded jeans, having shed the hoodie when she had returned to her house. She looked back at the man and shrugged. “I’m okay. May I ask you a couple questions?”

“Um...sure.”

“Where am I?”

The man looked Shawn over. “You’re in East Atlantic Beach, New York. Where else would you be? I don’t know of too many people who get lost and wander out here on a limb, especially by foot.”

“Well, sir, with all due respect, how I got here is a long story. Seeing as how you’re out with your dog, I don’t wish to keep you from your walk. However...if you know where Nathan Petrelli is to be buried, I’d appreciate that.”

“Oh, that blowhard’s funeral? Don’t see why a girl like you would want to know. In any case, he’s going to be buried at Long Island National over in Farmingdale. It’s pretty close by.”

“Thank you, sir,” Shawn replied. “Enjoy the rest of your walk.”

The man nodded at Shawn before they parted ways. Shawn closed her eyes and returned to the present. After a few moments, Shawn found she was in her bedroom. She heard Mohinder and Molly chatter through the door, and just behind their voices she heard the sound of a show on animals. The surgeon rubbed her face and noticed the chill still in her cheeks. Glancing at the cordless phone on her desk, she wondered what she was going to tell Bennet. This was when realized she had no exact dates or times for her findings. Without that information, she lacked the confidence to give Bennet the information he wanted. She rubbed her arms and tried to decide what to do next. A soft knock interrupted her ministrations. Sighing, she stood up and opened the door, finding Molly standing just outside the threshold.

“What’s for dinner?” the blonde girl asked.

“Um...” Shawn muttered. “That’s a good question.”

Just then, a knock at the front door cut through their conversation. Shawn stepped around Molly to answer the knock. She found Yolanda standing on the doorstep, a smirk on her tan face.

“Hey, there,” Yolanda chirped.

“Hey,” Shawn muttered. “What brings you over?”

“Not much. Just wanted to stop by and say hi.”

“Ah. Well, right now, I need to figure out what the three of us are going to have for dinner.”

“Not used to feeding multiple people, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, since you’re already feeding three mouths, will a fourth matter?”

Shawn shook her head. “Not at this point. Come in.”

Yolanda obliged her friend and stepped into the house. The two surgeons sifted through the rather lean selection of foodstuffs in Shawn’s kitchen. After the assessment and getting some input from the others, Shawn decided on cheese ravioli and the usual trimmings of an Italian style meal. She asked Yolanda to watch Molly and coaxed Mohinder into accompanying her to the grocery store.

Once in the store, Mohinder grabbed a cart, and the two began their task of obtaining enough food to at least get them through the weekend. Shawn insisted on perusing each aisle and walked at a pace to rival the elderly patronage scooting through the store. All the while, Shawn worked in some questions about the Petrellis (centered on Peter) as they made their way through the aisles. 

“Mohinder,” she asked. “How did you meet Peter Petrelli?”

Mohinder tapped his fingers on the cart’s handle. “Which time?”

Shawn tripped over her feet when she heard his response. She managed to grab a shelf holding boxes of crackers to keep from tumbling to the linoleum floor below. “What do you mean ‘which time’? You only meet a person once.”

“Well, the first time I met him, he only introduced himself as Peter. We met while I was driving a cab in New York.”

“And...wait a minute. New York City?”

“Yes, New York City. Hey, how do you know about Peter Petrelli?”

“Um, that business call I got earlier? At the park?”

“Yes, I know which call to which you are referring.”

“Well, I was asked to find Peter Petrelli and see what he was doing.”

“How did you know I know him?”

“Um, well, I, er, accidentally tapped you in a rather private moment. I heard you call out for someone named Peter. I kind of assumed that it was Peter Petrelli.”

With that, Shawn grabbed a box of Wheat Thins to conceal her red face. She peeked over the edge, waiting to see Mohinder’s reaction to her revelation. Meanwhile, Mohinder, stared at her, trying to figure out what she meant.

“Shawn,” he said, “what kind of private moment? When?”

“At night, sometime,” she replied. “It sounded like you were masturbating in the shower.”

Mohinder blushed so hard Shawn could see pink creep through the chocolate of his face. She tossed another him box of Wheat Thins. To her surprise, Mohinder caught it.

“They’re two for five, anyhow,” she told him.

Mohinder laughed and set the box in the cart. Then, he fixed her a look. “You sure it was an accident?”

She fixed him a Look, her hazel eyes darkening. “Mohinder, there are some things I’d rather not witness. That’s one of them. Getting back on subject, how about it? Peter Petrelli.”

“He’d read my father’s book on evolution and showed up with it at my apartment some time after our cab meeting.”

Shawn tugged on the cart, and they proceeded to the next aisle. “Why’s that?”

“He wanted to show me that he was proof, well, in the sense that he could fly and draw the future in the presence of those that could.”

“How did that go?”

Mohinder stared at the quarter filled cart. “He didn’t come through. Without actually seeing this proof, I didn’t believe him. I wanted to believe him, but I couldn’t, and I will never forgive myself for it.”

The geneticist sniffled and rubbed his eyes, oblivious to Shawn’s robotic motions of adding broth packets and cans of soup to the cart. For all his efforts, Mohinder’s actions only catalyzed more tears. His soft sniffles caught Shawn’s attention. She moved to where he stood and snared him into a hug, uncaring of the other patrons of the aisles. Men with hiked-up pants and ladies wearing kitten sweatshirts shuffled by while staring at the duo standing in the aisle.

“Mohinder,” Shawn said, “how were you to know? You did nothing wrong. You behaved like any skeptic would.”

“But I soon found out how important he was, and I didn’t protect him,” Mohinder whispered. “He died...my fault that he died.”

Shawn pulled away from Mohinder but gripped his shoulders. “No, Mohinder. Don’t do this to yourself. Peter is alive. I saw him. He didn’t die!”

Mohinder looked up, eyes half open and moist. “I’d like to believe you, too.”

Shawn shrugged. “It’s your choice, but I know when a person dies. I see it no matter where I am. Now let’s go. Molly will attack us in hunger if we don’t leave this place before closing.”


	5. Family Matters

“Good morning, Mira.”

Mira looked at the Japanese man that had entered the elevator. “Good morning, Kazuo.”

“I figured you would be in the office this morning.”

Mira tugged at her black blazer. “Nope. I still have lots of work to do, though.”

“How so?”

“A couple agents and I are going to a funeral. One of our specials should be there.”

“Who’s that?”

“You know that’s classified information. It’ll be hard enough to catch this person without leaked information. We don’t even know the extent of this person’s abilities.”

“Ah. Not having such vital information does complicate matters, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

“Well, in that case, I wish you luck, Miss Shenoy.”

Mira smiled. “Thank you, Kazuo.”

The elevator doors opened at the ground floor, and the two newest Linderman Group managers strode into the lobby. Mira headed outside to a waiting car just outside the plaza. She slid into the backseat and sat in silence during the ride to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Upon arrival, the chauffeur pulled up to the front of the cathedral and parked the car. He unzipped a bag and handed Mira a small microphone.

“The other two agents are already inside,” he told Mira. “All of us, including their chauffeur, are wired to this microphone system. If anything goes wrong, use these to call for help.”

“I will,” Mira said. “When does the service begin?”

The chauffeur glanced at the car radio. “In about an hour. Careful. If what I hear is correct, the press will show up soon, if they’re not here already.”

Mira huffed. “Thanks for the warning. Is there anything else I should know?”

“No, Miss Shenoy. Might want to head inside. Your special might have shown up for the unofficial viewing that should be going on right now.”

Mira nodded and stepped out of the car, unaware of the pale bald man milling outside the cathedral.

Peter watched as Mira made her way into the cathedral. He glanced around Fifth Avenue, watching the cops cordon off part of the street in preparation of a politician’s funeral. Grey clouds floated and hovered within feet of the church. People of all walks of life stood across the street and observed those on their way to the service. Friends, relatives and political cohorts of Nathan Petrelli filed into the building, their faces unflinching and eyes murky, arriving to mourn the loss of a flying man. After some hesitation, Peter decided to join those heading indoors. A stray thought entering his mind halted his walk.

It’s a shame they still haven’t found Nathan’s brother.

“But I’m here,” Peter whispered. “I’m alive.”

Nonetheless, he continued his trek into the cathedral.

Peter spent the bulk of the service in the back, averting his eyes from the flower draped coffin. The service itself lulled Peter into a state of self-loathing. Every time he tried to remember Nathan in a positive light like the priest suggested, he bemoaned how he robbed Nathan of his chance to do even more good. The only thought that comforted him was the fact that Nathan told Peter he loved him directly to his face.

On the opposite side of the cathedral, Mira scanned the crowd looking for Peter. After hearing people say Peter was still missing, the Indian woman wondered if there was even a chance of catching the empath at all. She asked over the radio system if anyone had seen any signs of him, but no one had anything to report. Frustrated, she sat through the rest of the somber service, careful not to draw attention to herself even though she was close to the exit.

After the service, nearly 1000 people filed out of the cathedral for the lengthy processional to Farmingdale. Mira and the agents waited for most of the group to proceed before rendezvousing with their chauffeurs. Mira whistled to the others over the microphone and whispered that she was going to exit the building. On her way out, she passed a wooden boothlike structure unaware of its occupant.

Peter sat in the booth, waiting for everyone to exit the cathedral. As the sound of footsteps softened, he opened the door of the booth and peeked out to scan the area. Only a few people remained in the building, so Peter decided it was safe to leave. Once outside, he spotted the jet black hearse and matching funeral limousine just in front of the steps. He watched as cars assembled in line behind the two funeral vehicles. In minutes, the hearse and the limousine pulled into the street and headed south.

Mira entered her car, and her chauffeur pulled into the processional. The car inched along as they rounded the corner onto the avenue. As she surveyed the scenery, Mira heard a voice in her earpiece.

“What was that?” she asked.

“I said we have a lock on the target.”

“Petrelli? Where is he?”

“Out front. We’re going over.”

“Alright. Just don’t provoke him. I’ll join you.”

“Got him?” the chauffeur asked.

“Seems that way,” Mira replied. “Find out where their driver is and join him. Give me a rendezvous point when I address him by his full name.”

The chauffeur nodded, and Mira exited the car. She strode out, shivering in the chill of the late autumn afternoon. After some walking, she spotted the other agents standing on the steps, blocking her view of the empath. Mira sped up and scaled the steps. The agents moved apart, and she got her first glimpse at Peter.

“Peter Petrelli,” she addressed him.

“52nd and Park,” she heard her chauffeur mutter.

“Who are you?” Peter asked.

“I’m Mira Shenoy,” she replied. “I work for the Linderman Group.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Look, I only knew that Linderman contributed to Nathan’s campaign. I can’t give you any details because I don’t know what they are.”

Mira cocked an eyebrow before realizing his concerns had nothing to do with who he was. “I’m not here to discuss your brother or Linderman.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I understand you know a man named Noah Bennet.”

“And his daughter, Claire. She also happens to be my niece.”

At that, Mira stiffened. “I am well aware of that, Mister Petrelli.”

“So what is it you want? You know, you picked the wrong time to confront me with cryptic statements and an even more unclear reason for seeking me out.”

“Perhaps you would like to continue this discussion somewhere more hospitable, then.”

“Not without knowing why you want to talk to me. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to say good bye to my brother.”

With that, Peter stepped around the group in front of him. He descended the steps as fast as he could without tripping over himself. The other three exchanged looks before following Peter. However, Peter heard them turn around. He stopped walking and faced them.

“I said I’m going to say good bye to my brother,” he growled.

Mira narrowed her eyes. “Mister Petrelli, if you would like to bid your brother farewell, at least ride with us.”

“I don’t think so, Shenoy, not when I don’t know you or what you want.”

Peter crouched at the knees before launching himself into the air. Mira and the gents followed his vertical trajectory as he sailed through the cloudy, snow-threatening sky. After a moment, Mira shook her head.

“Where’s he going?” one of the agents asked. 

“Probably Long Island National Cemetery,” she replied before pulling her microphone toward her face. “Bring the cars back to the cathedral. We’re going to the cemetery.”

Meanwhile, Peter flew in line with the processional. He loathed flying to his own brother’s burial. Between trying to shake the three pseudo-anonymous interrogators and not having a clue as to the location of the burial site, Peter had no choice but to opt out of more conventional forms of transportation. Instead, he maintained an altitude that enabled him to not be visible from the ground. He followed the processional into the cemetery. Once he found the burial site, Peter touched down fifty yards to the east and walked the remainder of the way.

The service was brief but laden with all the rituals of a military burial. Peter flinched at the rounds of gunfire. Each round conjured memories of the explosion, and Peter almost felt the heat rip through his skin and bones. In his mind, he saw Nathan’s mild expression of terror twist his facial features and a tear glistening in his brother’s eye. Nathan mouthed his name right before the blast knocked him unconscious. Opening his eye, he saw Heidi accept a triangular folded flag, sandwiching it between her hands. Near her, Simon and Monty fidgeted and looked at their mother. He heard their voices ring in his head as they silently asked why their Mommy got a flag. They also asked where their Daddy went and why he wasn’t coming back. Peter sniffled at their questions. He wanted to cuddle his nephews and tell them that wherever Daddy went he would be okay. He knew such words did not hold any truth.

As the ceremony reached its conclusion, Mira and the agents stepped out of their cars. They headed to the group gathered around the casket, disturbing the grass underfoot. Peter heard their footsteps and faded out of view. He turned and searched for the people who confronted him after the service at the cathedral. Once he found them, he watched them weave their way through the crowd. After they began lowering Nathan into the ground, he watched Mira and the others approach his mother. He knew his mother thought they were crazy and smiled a little when she dismissed them. Once their cars left, Peter made his way to Nathan’s grave. He waited until his relatives left before walking over to see the casket.

“Good bye, Nathan,” he whispered.

He blinked and watched a tear fall on the casket.

~*~*~

The alarm clock shook Shawn out of a deep sleep. Glancing at it, she found noon had arrived. Sitting up and stretching, she listened for any activity in the house. She heard Molly talking about how Santa Claus was a fake. The child’s comments were followed by a soothing baritone that almost lulled the surgeon back to sleep. However, Shawn realized she needed to have dinner ready in about six hours. As she slid out of bed, she wondered why she agreed to make a Thanksgiving meal for six people.

The sounds of the bedroom door opening and footsteps shuffling across the tile floor caught Molly’s attention. “Morning, Shawn,” she said.

Shawn smiled. “Morning Molly, Mohinder.”

“Sleep much?” Mohinder asked with a teasing smile.

This earned Mohinder a well deserved glare. “It’s not my fault I was the attending surgeon last night.”

“I’m just kidding. I made some tea. It’s in the fridge. Heat up as much as you’d like.”

Shawn quirked an eyebrow. “You mean you found room in the fridge?”

Mohinder nodded.

“Thanks,” Shawn mumbled. “So why are you guys up?”

“The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade was on,” Molly piped up. “Mohinder and I went to the CVS and got some holiday peanut M&Ms.”

“Sounds yummy, but don’t eat too many. Otherwise, you won’t have room for dinner tonight.”

Molly nodded and scooped out a handful of candies from the bag. Meanwhile, Shawn assessed Mohinder, who was still decked out in a white t-shirt and green pajama pants covered with reindeer. Shawn doubled over laughing as she saw him wandering around the drugstore in that outfit.

“I can’t believe you went to CVS in your PJs!” she exclaimed.

Mohinder blushed a little. “We only had fifteen minutes before the parade started.”

Shawn sniggered. “Someone has you trained. Next year you’ll be cruising around town in your underwear getting Ghiradelli chocolates for Peter!”

“Ooooooh!!” Molly giggled. “Mohinder has a crush on Peter!”

Mohinder buried his face in a chenille throw pillow. “Make it stop! Make it stop!”

At that, Shawn leaned on the futon and got herself under control. “Molly, leave Mohinder alone. Let me just get a shower, and then I gotta get cooking.”

A few hours later, a knock interrupted Shawn’s juggling act in the kitchen. She answered the door to find Yolanda and the parents Malloy standing outside. Each parent held covered trays while Yolanda carried a bundle of papers in her arms.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” they chorused.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Shawn replied. “Come on in.”

The Malloy family entered the house, and Yolanda introduced her parents to Mohinder and Molly. Yolanda and her father joined the guests in watching The Incredibles while her mother retreated to the kitchen where Shawn was preparing mashed potatoes. Shawn looked up and saw the salt and pepper haired woman hovering in the entryway.

“Hello, Consuela,” she said.

“Hello, Shawn. How goes life with the new house guests?”

“It goes. I don’t know why I got stuck with it. Why didn’t Bennet call upon Yolanda to do this? I can’t deal with kids!”

“That’s not what Yolanda tells me. Still having connection anxiety, aren’t you?”

Shawn shrugged. “I’ve been too busy working to tell.”

“And when you’re not working, you’re always with the man and young girl.”

“Look, I’m just trying to help them and myself make the best of a really strange situation.”

“Have you consulted your mentor about this?”

“Only once,” Shawn mumbled while placing the potatoes in the convection oven. “It was before they arrived.”

“Perhaps you should speak with him again, especially since Arnold Walker is in the process of filing the adoption papers.”

“And since numerous tests have proven he is related to the girl, that process should be finished by New Year’s Day. I haven’t told Mohinder much about it because I’ve been trying to deal with another issue.”

“What issue is that?”

Shawn leaned against the counter and beckoned Consuela to join her.

“Bennet’s having me track down someone,” Shawn whispered. “This someone is connected to Mohinder somehow. I’m not sure how.”

“Who is it?”

“A man named Peter Petrelli.”

Consuela nodded and looked at Shawn. “Is this man like you and my daughter?”

“Yeah. He seems to have multiple abilities, though. I’m not exactly sure how you can classify him.”

“You say he is connected to Mohinder. How so? Is it related to his ability?”

A timer resting on the counter dinged. Shawn turned around and lowered the heat on the stove. She stirred the contents of a pot and lifted out a ladle. The gravy dripped from the ladle and onto Shawn’s finger. She licked her finger and murmured something under her breath.

“Shawn, what about this connection between Mohinder and Peter?” Consuela pressed.

“It’s not related to Peter’s ability,” Shawn replied. “I’m not really sure how it works. All I know is....”

“Is what, Shawn?”

“All I know is I need to consult another source.”

“What’s that?”

“You mean who, Consuela.”

Consuela looked at the surgeon. “But Shawn, he’s dead.”

“He mailed something to me not too long ago. Maybe I need to open that package.”

“Like opening that box your sister mailed you not long before her death.”

At that, Shawn narrowed her eyes to slits. “You did not just say that.”

Consuela shrugged. “Just a suggestion.”

Dinner proceeded without much fanfare, with the exception of Molly and Yolanda fighting over the last drumstick. After everyone staggered away from the table drunk on turkey, Shawn began to clear the table. While she crammed dishes into her dishwasher, Mohinder came over and began rinsing the items that required hand washing. Shawn nodded at him in acknowledgment but continued her task. 

“When were you going to tell me about the adoption?” Mohinder asked out of the blue, causing Shawn to back into the edge of her refrigerator.

“I was waiting until Arnold agreed and had completed the test. I just found out myself that he had filed the papers.”

“Dammit, Shawn. I need to make sure Molly will be okay. I’m not sure how long this transfusion will last.”

“Mohinder, she’ll still be in Boynton Beach. He lives a couple developments over. Mohinder, admit it. You can’t adopt her, not until you’re a citizen.”

Mohinder looked at Shawn and started to cry. “Shawn, she can’t live like this, being shuttled from caretaker to caretaker.”

“Connection anxiety. I get it, Mohinder. You can’t let her go, like you can’t let go of Peter.”

“Like you can’t seem to let go of your sister!”

"How the hell do you know about my sister?"

"Consuela told me."

"And why did she tell you?"

"Because we started talking about Isaac."

Neither Shawn nor Mohinder anticipated the smack that snapped Mohinder’s head back. Mohinder stared at Shawn while Shawn stared at her hand. When they finally made eye contact, Mohinder saw tears on Shawn’s eyes. Looking out, Mohinder saw the rest of the group looking at them. Molly’s mouth hung open, and Consuela shook her head at him.

“How dare you mention Isaac or my sister!”

Shawn dashed out of the kitchen and grabbed her keys off the key rail. Before running out the door, she picked up a large manilla envelope on a table near the door. She ran out of the house, and the rest of the group heard her rev up her Camry. They heard her drive away over the sound of the movie they had been watching.

“Mohinder,” Yolanda said, “why did you mention her sister?”

Mohinder shook his head. “She made a comment about Peter.”

"Still not a good idea," was the reply he got. "Besides, she's onto something. You better come clean about Peter if you want her to forgive you.

In the car, Shawn gripped the steering wheel as she eased her Camry onto the Turnpike. She shifted her car to the left lane and made a beeline to the West Palm Beach Turnpike Plaza. After about twenty minutes, she pulled into a parking space and made her way to the tables. She sat at a table in the back of the eating area and opened the envelope. Inside the envelope was a large scarlet journal with a swirl brocade pattern. Breaking the brocade was a large S-like curve with short lines jutting out from random points. Shawn lifted the cover and saw a vivid colored pencil drawing of a large tower collapsing. Flipping through further pages, she saw drawings of faces of terror, scenes of her in local parks and pictures of Mohinder and Molly. Turning to the last page, she saw her in a room with a glass window blown out. An overall orange glow dominated the page, and Shawn saw herself clutching a file folder. Her face was outstretched in the picture as if she’s looking for a way out. Shawn turned back a few pages and saw more pictures set in a similar environment, including one of Mohinder hugging a white man with short brown hair.

“Peter,” she whispered.

With that, she set the book on the table and leaned back. Clearing her head, she stared ahead, thinking about what she had to do.


	6. Between the Past and Future

Back at the villa, Mohinder put the dishes away while waiting for Yolanda to return from shuttling her parents home. He had already tucked Molly into bed and combined the necessary components for turkey stock into a pot now sitting in the refrigerator. All the while, he contemplated what he said to Shawn. Moreover, he wondered what was in the envelope she grabbed as she ran out the door. This train of thought led him to thinking about an issue of The Sun he read after they finished dessert. He closed the dishwasher door and made his way to the living room.

“There it is,” he whispered.

He picked up the paper half dangling off the coffee table. Flipping through it, Mohinder found the story titled “Plan B, the Flimsy Phallus Night Club.” According to the article, some young men who attended the club were rendered impotent even though they walked into the club in perfect health. Some unofficial research pointed to one of the club’s frequent deejays as the cause of this phenomenon. Fascinated, Mohinder retrieved his laptop from behind the couch. After waiting for it to boot up, Mohinder Googled the deejay’s name. To his surprise, Ananda Shenoy yielded four pages of results. He clicked on the club’s website link, but it provided little information about the deejay. Mohinder continued clicking links until a knock at the door alerted him of Yolanda’s return.

After letting Yolanda in the house, he dragged her to where he set up his computer. For a few minutes, he showed her everything he found, including the photos of the Indian deejay.

“Mohinder,” Yolanda mumbled, “I didn’t expect you to take a tabloid seriously.”

“Well, Yolanda, if you think about it, these papers would be the place to find other people with abilities,” he replied. “Isn’t that why you started reading them?”

Yolanda looked at the geneticist and nodded. “I just stopped believing the articles after a while.”

"So why do you keep buying them?"

"Entertainment, force of habit, I guess."

Mohinder murmured in acknowledgement. “And to think that Ananda of all people...if it’s really her....”

“What do you mean ‘if it’s really her’?”

“My ex girlfriend told me once that she had a half sister named Ananda. I’ve never met said sibling.”

“And I take it your ex’s last name is Shenoy.”

Mohinder mumbled an assent. He opened his mouth to continue the story when the sliding of a deadbolt made him jump in his seat. He leaned over Yolanda to see Shawn entering the house. Shawn nodded at the duo occupying the couch as she sauntered over to the futon.

“Shawn,” Yolanda said, “Nice of you to join us.”

“I’m sorry,” Shawn sighed. “Too much shit going on in my mind. Haven’t dealt with this much stress in about five years.”

“No, I should be the one apologizing,” Mohinder said. “I had no clue about what happened to your sister. Or Isaac. I’m sorry.”

Shawn nodded. “Don’t sweat it. If you want, you can see what happened in here.”

She placed the journal on the coffee table next to the stack of tabloids.

“What’s in there?” Yolanda asked.

“Sketches,” Shawn replied. “Isaac said he’d mail these when he finished them or if he died, whichever came first. As far as I can tell, he fulfilled both objectives.”

“Isaac,” Mohinder said. "I take it you two kept in touch."

“We were friends for a little while, but a lot of things got in the way.”

“How did you meet him?”

“I saw one of his paintings in a gallery window during a trip to New York I took a few years ago. It was a close-up of my face while I was performing a surgery of some sort. On a whim, I decided to visit the gallery. As soon as I walked in, Isaac recognized me.”

“Wow,” Mohinder whispered.

“You know, Shawn,” Yolanda interjected, “I’ve heard this story before, but what I’ve always wanted to know is why you have so many prints of his work.”

Shawn turned a few pages in the journal. “You can thank Charles for that. He sent me a number of Isaac’s prints, especially when Isaac started dating that bitch of his daughter.”

Yolanda burst out laughing. “Someone’s a little jealous!”

“Well, he’s dead now, so I can’t do anything about it.”

“Ha! You ARE!”

Shawn made a face at her friend. “I admitted to nothing. Nothing.”

“Shawn, may I ask how long Isaac was addicted to heroin?” Mohinder interjected.

At that, Shawn turned the open journal so Mohinder could see the drawing. “Since 9/11. He predicted said event in these drawings the day after we met.”

Mohinder picked up the journal and studied the drawing. It showed the South Tower just as the airliner crashed into it. Turning the page, he saw a dining room fill with smoke and three people huddling in front of a table. He flipped to another page and found a grayscale drawing of a rubble heap. If he looked close enough, he could see a light gray hand and a concrete ash-covered face in the pile.

“Your family?” he asked.

Shawn nodded. “I would die if I attempted to tap their last moments. My ability exposes me to the physical environment of the tapping location.”

“Kind of like The Matrix.”

“Exactly.”

Mohinder continued to peruse the journal in awe. His eyes widened every time he found a scene that looked familiar. Shawn knew when he found the drawings of the two of them and Molly. One particular drawing made Mohinder drop the journal, prompting Shawn to join him and Yolanda on the couch. She picked up the journal and looked at the drawing. Nothing stood out in the full color sketch of her talking to a very tall woman with long black hair and a rounded belly indicative of early pregnancy. Then she looked at the photo still on Mohinder’s computer.

“Holy fuck a duck!” she yelped.

“Ssshhh!” Mohinder hissed.

“Sorry,” Shawn muttered. “I just....”

“I’m going to find Ananda. I just have to do a few things beforehand.”

“Like what?” Yolanda asked.

“Get an Indian visa to England,” he replied. “I probably won’t be able to get it for a month, but I’m going to do whatever it takes.”

Shawn closed her eyes for a moment. When she exited her tapping, she was wringing her hands. “Whatever you do, don’t mention Mira if you can help it,” Shawn warned him.

“Mira?” he asked. “What do you know about Mira?”

“Let's just say it's a case of sibling rivalry gone horribly wrong, and if I'm saying it went horribly wrong, you know it's bad.”

* * *

Mohinder pulled his beige suitcase out of the trunk of Shawn’s Camry. He shut the lid and watched Shawn get out of the car. A gust of wind picked up her hair, covering her face. She pushed back the errant locks and shielded her eyes from the Miami sun.

“I can’t believe you made me drive all the way out to this crap hole,” she shouted over the buzz of traffic. “You could have chosen an airport without bilingual signage.”

“Trust me, Shawn, I don’t care about that. All the airports in India have multilingual signs.”

Shawn nodded and joined Mohinder by the curb. “Do you ever get homesick for India, Mohinder?”

This made Mohinder stop to think. After a while, he shook his head. “Aside from your immigration laws and dysfunctional health care system, I consider America my home more than ever.”

“Are you thinking of staying in Florida?”

Mohinder shrugged. “I might. We’ll see how things go with Molly.”

“Mohinder, I’m-“

”Don’t. I know it’s best for Molly. I’ll miss her for a while, but it will be better for her in the long run. You better head out. It sucks that you have to work on New Year’s Eve.”

The surgeon shrugged. “I’ve done it before. I’ll do it again.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“Well, think of it this way, Mohinder. I’m not going home to an empty house.”

“You're not? How about Yolanda?”

“Working. New Year’s Eve is always a busy night. People get rather crazy when they're on the roads. Anyway, you better get going. They always recommend an early arrival. You'll spend a shit load of hours fartin' around in the airport before flying out to Europe.”

Mohinder nodded. “Take care of yourself, Shawn.”

“You too, Mohinder.”

The two hugged before Shawn got back in her car. From the curb, Mohinder watched her drive back into traffic before making his way into the bustling airport.

Mohinder’s arrival in London strained his already overworked body. He held his eyelids open with his fingers as he shuffled through immigration and stretched during his time in customs. By the time he finished his legal entrance into England, it was 7:30 in the morning. Despite it being morning, Mohinder decided to go to Plan B. After finding the night club’s address in a phone book, he hailed a cab to Brixton.

Upon arrival in Brixton, Mohinder noticed only a single light glowing in the building. He paid the driver and made his way to the entrance. It took him three sets of knocks to get a response. The door opened a sliver, and a ivory-skinned man with a crew cut poked his head out.

“Sir, the club is closed until eight this evening,” the man said.

“Is Ananda Shenoy here?” Mohinder pressed.

“Ananda? What do you want with her?”

“My name is Mohinder Suresh. I’m a geneticist, and I’d like to ask her some questions.”

“What kinds of questions?”

“About the...impotence of the men who patronize your establishment.”

The man cracked a small smile. “Think you know a way to solve our declining attendance problem?”

Mohinder shrugged. “If I could talk to her...maybe. I’ll figure something out.”

“Fair enough. Let me see if she’s still here.”

The man shut the door, leaving Mohinder to loiter in the doorway. He set his luggage down and glanced out at the street. A few people meandered in the streets, and one even stopped to pick up a plastic bottle rolling along the sidewalk. Though the clouds seemed to evade the Brixton neighborhood, the dark browns and reds of the buildings cast a shadow over the street. Mohinder pulled his luggage closer to his feet, and peering up, he spotted a very tall woman approach the entrance. Upon closer inspection, he found she was about as tall as Sylar. The memory of the telekinetic sociopath whom he allowed in his apartment for a short while made him shudder. The woman stopped right next to him and pounded a blue-gloved fist on the door.

“Can’t believe I left my keys in there,” she muttered under her breath.

Mohinder turned to the Amazonian-like woman next to him. “Excuse me. Would you by any chance happen to know an Ananda Shenoy?”

The woman faced him and flashed a smile. “You’re lookin’ at her. Now are you lookin’ for an autograph or to beat the seven shades of shit out of me?”

Mohinder shot her a startled look. “Um, neither. I was hoping to ask you some questions about–”

"I’m sorry, Mister Suresh,” the man mumbled as he opened the door. In confusion, he looked around and found Ananda. “Ah, Miss Shenoy. I thought you shot off.”

“Well, Greg, I forgot my keys.”

“Ah, yes, your keys. I have them right here.”

He held out her UK-flag bedecked key ring, and she snatched it from his hand. Ananda said good bye to the man as he shut the door. With that, she refocused her attention on Mohinder.

“Greg has a weird sense of timing,” she mumbled. “By the way, I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“Mohinder. Mohinder Suresh.”

The two Indians shook hands.

“Mohinder...” she hummed. “That name sounds familiar.”

“Would you happen to have a sister?”

“Well, I have a half-sister but a sister, nonetheless.”

“Is her name Mira?”

Ananda nodded before her mouth formed a small ‘oh’. “Um, yes. Mira, indeed. How do you know that?”

Mohinder shuffled his feet. “We were engaged once.”

“So...you are the mysterious Mohinder Suresh my uncle has told me about."

He nodded.

“Oh, good God! My sister is a fucking git for dumping you. Hey, if you’re interested....”

The geneticist blushed and shook his head. “Well...I met someone else, but it’s flattering to know there’s interest out there.”

Ananda chuckled. “Good thing my flat mate works days. Otherwise, he’d be all over you.”

Mohinder fidgeted, and Ananda burst out laughing when she put the two together.

“Damn! Is that why she dumped you?”

“No, Ananda. It’s much more complicated than that.”

“Seems that way. Well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to tuck into some breakfast. Haven’t eaten since ten or so.”

“Neither have I. Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.”

Over breakfast, Mohinder relayed the turmoil he endured over the past three months. He chronicled the steps in which his routine life was turned on its ear by his father’s death. Ananda became misty eyed upon learning about Chandra Suresh’s murder and how Mohinder witnessed it in retrospect. From there, she learned how Mohinder’s decision to finish his father’s research offered him two paths in life. He’d barely managaed to escape one that put him in a killer’s crosshairs. The other, the one which made Mohinder’s voice crack, had not fulfilled the geneticist’s desire for instant proof, leading to a parting that had pushed his emotional limits.

Mohinder continued his story as they rode through the Tube on the way to Ananda’s flat. All the while, Ananda contemplated Mohinder’s misadventures. She paid attention to the fluctuations in his voice, particularly how it flattened when he discussed the two most important people in his life: Peter and Molly. As far as she could tell, the only thing that gave Mohinder any sense of relief was watching the killer die at the hands of a sword-wielding Japanese man. As the train inched closer to their stop, Ananda rubbed her hands together. The train halted, and she tapped her traveling companion on the shoulder.

“We’re here,” she mumbled, and she led him off the train.

The two arrived at Ananda’s flat after hiking up four flights of stairs. She unlocked the door to the cluttered foyer area before they stepped inside. They set their bags in the foyer, and Ananda made her way into the kitchen.

“Would you like anything, Mohinder?” she asked.

“No, thank you,” he replied as he looked in the mirror. For having endured a thirteen hour flight from Miami to London, his face showed no visible signs of fatigue. In fact, the only evidence of his travels was his rumpled clothing.

As Mohinder studied his face in the mirror, Ananda rejoined him while holding a bottle of soda. “Like it?”

Mohinder shook himself out of his daze and faced the deejay. “What do you mean?”

“Your face. I got rid of those bags the size of saucers from under your eyes.”

He watched his eyes widen in the mirror at Ananda's comment. “What? How could you do that?”

“Everything they say about me in the tabloids is true,” Ananda replied. “I have to say, being able to manipulate the human body can be fairly useful at times.”

That comment made Mohinder’s moth fall open. “You mean...?”

She nodded. “Mira will never admit that my kind exists. Then again, that could also be attributed to something I did to her when we were younger.”

“What was that?”

The deejay looked at her feet. “Well...that’s kind of a sore subject. I don’t know how long the two of you were engaged or how much she told you about her life.”

He grabbed her shoulder. “What did you do to Mira?”

“Mohinder,” Ananda sighed, “I aborted her baby.”

At that, Mohinder’s knees buckled. He slumped to the floor, pulling Ananda down with him. Once he could fall no further, Mohinder propped himself against the wall. Ananda picked herself off the ground and took a crouching position next to him.

“Mira...was pregnant?” Mohinder asked.

“Sadly, yes,” was the response he received. “She was sleeping with one of the professors at Madras. I don’t know for sure which one. All I know is it was the first time I could control my ability, and I was trying to do her a favor. So I triggered a miscarriage.”

Mohinder clenched her shoulder tighter. “Ananda, are you insane? How can you trigger a miscarriage in anyone, let alone your sister?”

She shook her head. “I honestly don’t know, Mohinder, but I do know this. Living in India with this ability and this body of mine was nothing short of hellish. I'm not sure how I survived six years of it.”

One phrase caught Mohinder’s attention. “This body of yours?”

Ananda stared in his eyes for a moment before blinking. When she opened her eyes, Mohinder noticed they had shifted from nearly espresso in color to a deep Tanzanite blue. The geneticist peered at the color changing orbs, trying to determine if he was hallucinating.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I can manipulate my own body, too.”


	7. Everybody Underground

For all his years of living in New York, Peter never went to Times Square for New Year’s Eve. With his brother dead and other relatives not answering his calls, he had no plans for the evening, and he was not about to mope the night away. As the afternoon faded into twilight, Peter descended the stairs from the roof of the Deveaux building and braved the crowds as he pushed toward Times Square.

Upon arrival, Peter discovered the square was already three quarters full. A nameless band droned on right in front of where the ball would land. Closing his eyes, Peter drowned in the hyper beats and melancholy melodies. A part of him marveled that he was even alive and able to be a part of the celebratory swarm. This led him to remembering his last visit to Mohinder’s apartment. He faced Sylar in the Telekinetic Olympics, but Sylar brought him down with a shard of glass. The next thing he knew, he was in Nathan’s house, and Claire had removed the shard from his skull. All the while, Peter realized that he had no clue what happened between these two moments.

"Five six one,” a voice whispered in his head.

“Huh?” he mumbled, his own response breaking his reverie.

“Five six one,” the voice repeated, “seven two two....”

After two repetitions of all the numbers, Peter figured out their connection. He darted out of the pack and found a small t-shirt shop still open. Once inside, he made his way to the counter and asked to use the phone. The clerk dialed the number and handed Peter the receiver. Peter waited through five rings, all the while hearing the same voice mention something about Mohinder or someone else answering.

“Hello, you have reached the residence of Shawn LeLand,” the voice on the other end chirped. “I am unable to answer the phone at this time, so please leave your name, your number and a message. I will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you.”

“Hello,” Peter sputtered. “Mohinder? Are you there? It’s Peter Petrelli. I’m alive, and I’m in New York. I have no phone of my own, so I’ll try to call you again when I can. I guess...we’ll talk later.”

With that, he passed the receiver back to the clerk. After writing down the number dictated into his subconscious, Peter left the shop and rejoined the cavorting throng crowding the square. People hollered and blew into noisemakers as the Jumbotrons displayed the seconds ticking away. As the crowd counted down the final ten seconds, tears leaked out of Peter’s orbs. He shut his eyes, peeking through thick lashes to see the ball hit the bottom. When he saw the number 2007 in lights, he lowered his head, allowing the tears to flow free.

“Happy New Year’s,” he choked.

Much to his surprise, the crowd dispersed in a half hour. Not ready to retreat to the rooftop, he wandered through the city. Most of the bars and night clubs were filled with post-New Year’s partiers, but he stumbled across what looked like an underground club without a line snaking from the entrance. He made himself invisible before descending the stairs.

After strolling past the bouncer, Peter surveyed the club. Most of the walls were painted black with the exception of some toward the back of the hall. Three white walls provided the backdrop for flooding halogen lights and cramped stages. Men clad in black leather and liquid latex struck poses on one stage, and two more were held in place by stainless steel shackles. Looking around, Peter found the long, curved bar dotted with maroon and silver streaked pendant lights. Numerous leather couches in maroon and black dotted the club, and he spotted two circular platforms a couple yards away from the bar.

Peter walked over to a coffee table between the bar and the circular platforms. On it rested a half full rocks glass. He picked it up and sniffed the contents, surprised to find it only contained water. Downing what was left in the glass, Peter set it back before walking off to rematerialize. With a greater concentration of people in this area, he refocused his energy on trying not to think for a change. Finding an empty chair near to one of the platforms, Peter plopped in it, happy to be off his feet. Just as he sat down, the deejay cut the music.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you are enjoying 2007 so far,” the deejay cooed through the crackling sound system. “It might be one AM, but the party is just getting started here. In fifteen minutes, you can catch the Dynamic Duo playing Doctor on Stage One for a special one hour performance.”

Peter leaned back in the chair and brushed at the silver studs adorning the arms.

“Then at one thirty, the Six Star Sextet will be performing an encore of their Leatherbound Ritual,” the deejay continued. “But right now, Circular One is opening up for the New Year’s exhibition of crowd favorite Morally Grey.”

At that, Peter noticed people swarmed the area near where he sat.

“So get your drinks from Mitch the Mixo and enjoy your show of choice. Thank you for making The Iron Gate your stop for New Year’s Eve 2007.”

Peter tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. The halogens above him flickered on, prompting him to shield his eyes from the whitewash of light. He caught a glimpse of two doors in the ceiling opening, and he saw the shadowed mass lowered to the stage. As coarse industrial rock thudded off the walls of the club, Peter followed the travels of the form only to find a familiar face tilted back in his direction.

Sylar only knew he was hovering a foot from the stage from the roar of the crowd. The drugs coursing through his system kept him from fully opening his eyes. Even if he could open his eyes, he knew the lights would prevent him from seeing the crowd. While grateful to the owner of the club for letting him stay here, he didn’t enjoy the way in which he had to repay the debt. Adding insult to injury was the fact that the manager ordered him to not incorporate Sylar into his stage name. Getting a feel for the pulsating techno music, he listened for the right beat before splaying his legs into a V shape. As the crowd’s cheering trilled into his eardrums, he decided that there could be worse things than being a piece of living art.

Peter stared at the commotion before his eyes, but he paid no attention to it. A voice drifting through his head jolted him out of his semi-vegetative state.

“They won’t let him use Sylar as part of his stage name?” Peter mumbled. “Wait. Sylar? What the fuck?”

He bolted to an upright sitting position. Looking at the shirtless performer, he knew exactly who was in those pants and chains.

“I thought you were dead,” he hissed.

With that, Peter sprung out of the chair and dashed to the sparsely populated bar. Slamming into the edge, he lowered himself onto a stool. A short man with slicked back hair approached and slid a Skyy coaster in front of him.

“Mitch the Mixo at your service,” he said. “What can I get for you?”

“Absolut on the rocks,” Peter mumbled, setting a twenty on the bar. “I also need a little info, if you have it.”

Mitch placed Peter’s drink on the coaster and pocketed the twenty. “Depends. What is it you want to know?”

“That man at the circular stage-“

”Mister Morally Grey. What about him? I will say he’s off limits for private meetings. Owner’s orders.”

Peter scowled at Mitch’s statement. “He’s not my type. How long has he been here?”

“Almost two months. He was originally a janitor, but then those suits started hanging around.”

At that, Peter cocked his head, trying to understand what Mitch told him.

“Suits,” Mitch continued. “Agents. People looking to capture other people, mainly those with special abilities.”

“Abilities, huh?” Peter muttered.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Actually, I think I do. Some jackasses in business wear hounded me at my brother’s funeral.

Mitch’s eyebrows flew to the top of his forehead as he gripped the rail. “Really. What do you know about people with abilities?”

“I’m one, and so is...Morally Grey, but that’s not his real name. Did you know that?”

Mitch stared at Peter and shook his head a bit.

“His name is Sylar,” Peter continued in a whisper, “and he can move things with his mind.”

“That’s probably why the suits want him.”

Peter shrugged. “Probably. They want me, too.”

“Why? What can you do?”

With that, Peter took his empty glass and turned it upside down. He put his hand on the top of the upturned object and pressed down. The glass cracked and splintered under his hand. The more he pressed, the smaller the glass pieces got, and they lodged themselves into his palm. Peter lifted his hand and plucked out each shard. Mitch could only stand there with his jaw hanging open as he watched the skin heal from the glass wounds.

“No wonder they want you,” he gasped. “Nobody should be naturally able to crush that glass just with their bare hands...or hand, for that matter.”

“Or heal,” Peter muttered.

Mitch opened his mouth but stopped short. He looked out at the stage and spotted two gentlemen in suits loiter near Circular One.

“What’s up?” Peter asked.

“Suits,” was the response he got.

“Dammit I’ve spent the past month-“

”Shut it. They could be after Morally Grey or you or anybody here, for that matter. There are a shit load of them around.”

“Who?”

“Both.”

“How do you know all of this?”

Mitch adjusted the cuff of his tuxedo shirt. “I used to be one of them. A suit. Now shut up and stay facing the bar.”

Peter complied and gestured to the surface of the bar. Mitch nodded and prepared another glass. He kept his eye on the agents while helping other customers, watching them leave the cluster near Circular One. While sipping his liquor, Peter heard one of them comment about heading to the back of the club, prompting him to nearly choke on his vodka. Mitch heard his sputtering from the other end of the bar and shot a look at the empath. His eyes widened, and he mouthed something.

“What?” Peter asked.

“Behind you!” Mitch shouted.

Peter turned to find an agent mere inches away from his face. Without thinking, he threw his fist, his knuckles digging into the agent’s eye. The agent stumbled back before landing on his tail bone. Peter glanced to his right and saw two chiseled men in all black clothes marching through the club. One headed to the circular stages, and the second stopped in front of the agent lying on the floor, whose eye had morphed into a pool of reds, greens and blues. The man in black kicked the agent’s shoulder but got no response. Moments later, the second man joined the small cluster near the bar, holding the other agent in his clutches. The agent writhed in the man’s arms and then locked eyes with Peter.

“Him!” the agent shouted.

“Shut your trap, you little pissant,” his captor hissed.

“He did it!”

Ignoring the agent’s outbursts, the captor looked at his compatriot. “What happened to the other one?”

“He’s out like a busted light bulb,” the other man answered before glancing at Peter. “Maybe he did do it.”

“I swear he did it!” the agent yelled as he continued to twist and fight the flesh and bone restraints cutting off circulation in his arms.

“Well, he was going to abduct me!” Peter finally retorted.

“How the hell would you know that?” the man asked.

“I-I-I’ve seen him before! At my brother’s funeral.”

“We were after the one called Morally Grey,” the agent mumbled, “but if you’re here...let me at him.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” his captor growled as he dragged the agent to the exit.

“All the same, you’re out of here as well,” the other man said while grabbing Peter’s shoulder.

Peter fell off the stool as the man dragged him along. He heard Mitch call out about something being on the house, but nothing registered until the man dropped him on the sidewalk right next to the stairwell. Dazed, Peter shook his head and scrambled to his feet. Next to him was the agent who yelled at him earlier.

“Nice evening, isn’t it, Mister Petrelli?” the agent asked.

Without a word, Peter turned and began running. He heard the agent on his heels, his footfalls and mental taunts coursing through the empath's brain. The agent both concentrated on capturing Peter and laughing inside over said subject’s outburst about why he punched the other agent. Feeling the agent gaining ground, Peter stopped and faced him. The agent smirked just before Peter tossed him down the sidewalk with a single nod of his head. 

"Stay the fuck away from me!" he yelled at the agent, who was lying on his back on the concrete.

With that, Peter took flight and headed back to the rooftop.

~*~*~

Mira lounged in the sitting area reading profiles of the subjects the group previously studied or intended to study. Since efforts to bring Peter and Sylar to Kirby Plaza had been fruitless, she devoted some time to learning about the abilities they had been able to study. The hours spent reading enlightened Mira, and she began to understand why the Suresh men devoted their lives to learning as much as they could about these people. A knock interrupted her reading. She answered the door and found her agents standing in the threshold.

“Morning, gentlemen,” she said. “What happened to you?”

“We found Peter Petrelli in SoHo,” the agent with the black eye mumbled. “It did not go so well.”

“Really. Come in so we can discuss this.”

The agents stepped into the suite and settled in the chairs.

“Would either of you like anything?” she continued.

“I’ll take an ice pack,” the injured agent piped up, gesturing to his eye.

Mira stopped and looked at him. “How did you get that?”

“Like I said, we found Peter Petrelli. He’s got one hell of a punch.”

“Not to mention his flight, his ability to move things with his mind and potentially the ability to read minds,” the other agent added.

“So he has a minimum of four abilities,” Mira said. “We'll have to adjust our strategy a bit. Now let me see about an ice pack.”

With that, Mira ventured to her bedroom. She opened the mini-fridge and checked the ice tray. After tossing some ice in a plastic shopping bag, she grabbed some water and rejoined the agents in the sitting area. Upon arrival, she spotted them flipping through the profiles, although the one agent kept squinting at the paper in his hands.

“Glad to see you’re comfortable,” she said while handing the ice pack over. “Anything else on Petrelli? Where did you find him, anyway?”

“At The Iron Gate,” the uninjured agent replied. “We were there tracking down Sylar.”

“Any luck with Sylar?”

The agents shook their heads.

“Someone at the club is protecting Sylar,” the injured agent stated. “We got kicked out of the club.”

“It seems as if they know our type,” his compatriot added. “We might have to go undercover if we plan to capture Sylar.”

“How about Peter?” Mira asked.

“With him, we might just get lucky. It depends on what abilities he decides to use...or not use, for that matter.”

Mira nodded. “Well, you guys should get some sleep after the long night you had. I have the day off, but I’m going to see if there’s a way we can capture either of these men. Let’s meet tonight for dinner.

The agents nodded and left the room. After they left, she scuttled back to the bedroom to get dressed. New Year’s Day or not, she was going to track down these specials if it was the last thing she’d ever do.

~*~*~

Shawn thanked providence for the light traffic on the Turnpike as she pulled into her driveway. After getting in the house and tossing her bag on the futon, she pressed a button on her answering machine.

“You have two messages,” the machine droned.

“Oh goody,” she grumbled. “If it’s work, I’m calling in dead. I’ve had enough surgery for one day.”

She changed into her pajamas while someone form the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office reminded her to not drink and drive on New Year’s Eve. The surgeon rolled her eyes at the reminder. The night’s numerous car crash injuries provided enough reminders, especially when they came in the form of seven broken ribs, a collapsed lung and a brain bleed all in one person. Shawn cursed the Bacardi corporation while trying to push that particular patient out of her mind. The second message diverted her attention.

“Hello,” a male voice sputtered. “Mohinder? Are you there? It’s Peter Petrelli.”

As Peter continued rambling, Shawn smiled a bit. She picked up the nearby cordless phone and sifted through the caller ID. Though the name Petrelli appeared nowhere in the list of calls, she spotted a call from T.J.’s T-Shirts made at 11 the previous night. Too tired to tap or make any phone calls herself, she retreated to her bedroom. Eyeing the calendar, she counted down the days in her head until Mohinder returned from his trip. She couldn’t wait to see his face when she played Peter’s message for him.


End file.
